


The Fame

by jeffersonhairpin



Series: The Fame [1]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: (but they will), And a wife, Angst, But it has fun times too I promise, Divorce, Drinking, Elio is Rich, F/M, Fame, Fluff, Future Fic, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence (not involving Oliver), M/M, Music, Oliver Has Children, Reunions, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Will they or won’t they, no beta we died like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:21:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 78,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22766908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeffersonhairpin/pseuds/jeffersonhairpin
Summary: "Oliver laughs a little at the thought of Elio under the influence of Hollywood materialism, hypnotised by the pretty lights and the shiny people."(A modern AU where Elio writes Lady Gaga’s music bc they met in New York and he shouted out Oliver in his Grammys speech in 2009.)
Relationships: Oliver & Elio Perlman, Oliver/Elio Perlman, Oliver/Micol
Series: The Fame [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1719049
Comments: 302
Kudos: 231





	1. The Fame pt.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver sees Elio thank him in his Grammys acceptance speech and runs out the grab the CD to see if he can figure out why...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello time for something lighthearted and fun compared to my usual :'))

Oliver is sitting in his living room just putting the finishing touches on his second book with his kids watching some awards show in the background, when he hears the strangest thing. 

“…goes to… Stefani Germanotta and Elio Perlman, for ‘Just Dance!”

Followed by some kind of electronic autotuned pop and thunderous applause from the audience and his children.

_What??_

He turns to face their giant TV.

“No fucking way,” he says dumbly, his eyes and mouth wide as he waits to see who it really is. 

“Dad!” Grace says in shock, having never heard her father swear before.

“Shh, Gracie, one second,” he says distractedly as Micol comes into the room to see what’s up.

_It can’t be – there must be other Elio Perlmans in the world, surely._

As the camera pans to the award’s recipients Oliver can’t get a good look. There’s a woman in a leotard with a blue lightning bolt on her face hugging someone who could be Elio, but with his back to the camera and his face buried in her shoulder it’s hard to tell… 

Those curls, though, they’re so familiar.

_Did I just watch Elio win a fucking Grammy?_

_Why is he even writing something that’s in a Grammy category?_

_Why have I heard nothing about this?_

Oliver has so many questions as the woman pulls back and heads towards the stage with maybe-Elio in tow. Oliver gets a brief glimpse of his face as he turns and _my god, it could be him_ but he’s moving too fast. The moment seems to drag on forever and every part of Oliver’s body is tense as he leans forward in anticipation.

He leans back with his jaw still hanging in dumb shock as they take the stage and his wildest suspicions are confirmed.

 _Elio Fucking Perlman_ is on his television. Winning a _Grammy_. For writing a _pop song._

The world has turned upside down, Oliver must be dreaming. He actually thinks he might need to pinch himself as the outlandishly dressed woman thanks everyone under the sun and goes on emotionally about how it was really Elio behind the song and most of the album and she just helped and sang it. 

Elio stands at her side smiling and blushing. _They’re standing so close, they look so comfortable with each other… are they a couple?_

Elio remains silent until the last second.

“I uh… I just wanna thank Stefani and my Mom and my Dad and Billy Whittaker, and uh… Oliver Lachman, if you’re watching. Thanks.”

The look of shock on Oliver’s face falls into blankness, his whole being resetting like an overheated computer. He thinks he needs a minute to lie down as the electronic song comes back on and the show goes to a commercial break. 

What the fuck.

Oddly before anything else his brain goes to how the hell Elio wrote – or co-wrote – that song; probably that whole album. He’s definitely heard it over the radio many times and it’s so far from Bach it’s not even funny…

His second reaction is to smile so hard it hurts, his excitement for Elio filling up the room as he laughs in overwhelmed joy. His thoughts are on a loop as though trying to make it hit him, but it doesn’t quite compute.

He’s brought back to reality by Max tugging on his sleeve.

“Daddy, do you know the man? The man said your name on the TV.” 

It seems like he’s a little scared by the television interacting with his actual life and it’s adorable but Oliver’s head is all over the place.

Micol picks him up even though he’s probably too big now at four, and turns to Oliver with a questioning look. 

“You know him? What did you do to get thanked in a Grammy speech?” 

She sounds amused but also lost. 

“I don’t know,” he says honestly, finally shaking his shock. “We were really good friends when I spent the summer with his family in Italy?” he hazards. Micol makes a face, still confused.

 _…He also thanked some other guy,_ Oliver thinks, irrationally jealous despite knowing nothing about the nature of their relationship and having no claim on Elio now. He knew Elio’s life would go on without him obviously – he would be sad if it didn’t, but… He’s not entirely sure what he’s feeling, in all honesty. 

“I uh…” Oliver trails off. “I’ve gotta go get that album,” he says, standing and grabbing his keys, his book completely forgotten.

“Oliver!” Micol calls, following him with a frown and Max still on her hip. “Just get it on iTunes, nothing will be open.”

“No, I need the booklet that comes with the CD – that music bar place sells CDs, they’ll probably still be open,” he replies, kissing her cheek and rushing out the door without further explanation. 

Micol lets out a huff halfway between amused and annoyed and turns to Grace.

“I guess he’s excited,” she muses. “Someone said Daddy’s name on TV, isn’t that cool? You can tell your friends about it at Jordie’s tomorrow.”

At the store the cashier gives Oliver a funny look, seeing his desperation to get a pop album and get out of there.

“Forget a birthday or something?” she asks with a raised eyebrow as he punches in his PIN at speed.

“Uh, sure,” Oliver replies, not caring to explain himself and darting out of the store before she can even offer a receipt.

Despite his eagerness to get his hands on the CD and get home to play it, he finds himself strangely reluctant to press play when the moment actually comes. Micol has put the kids to bed so it’s just him sitting in the living room ready to listen over their big speakers. 

He pours himself a large glass of wine for courage and sits down with the booklet, Micol at his side.

He plays the first few seconds of the first song and Micol pauses it, standing with a tired look.

“Nope,” she says. “I’m not listening if it’s autotuned crap. I’m happy for you and your friend but not that happy. I’ll see you in bed.”

Oliver gives an internal sigh of relief and gives her a smiling goodnight kiss, looking down at the booklet in his hands as she goes. The cover is so… Oliver doesn’t even know. 

It’s going to take a moment for him to associate this in any way with sweet young European Elio Perlman, so he decides to flip through a little bit more before he listens.

The back of the booklet confirms that Elio wrote other songs on the record, but there are a few he didn’t have a hand in. The names are exactly the kind of cool, vapid titles he expected from the cover, but again, not what he would ever expect from Elio – he cannot have written these songs, seriously, for himself… He just can’t.

Surely some of this is about Oliver though, if Elio mentioned him? Or is that a self-absorbed thing to think? He can’t help it; Elio thanked him in the speech, so it’s not crazy to think that, right?

As he gets towards the end of the track list ‘Summerboy’, ‘I Like It Rough’, and ‘Brown Eyes’ give him the most pause… His eyes are blue, who did Elio write that about? Did he even write that one? Is Billy Whittaker ‘Brown Eyes’? Is Oliver ‘Summerboy’? Are Elio and this Lady Gaga woman a couple or just friends who are comfortable in each other’s space?

 _Did Elio ‘like it rough’ when we were together and I wasn’t… rough, enough?_ he thinks, despite that he’s the one who left Elio, not the other way around. 

_What’s from his perspective and what’s just there because it sells? How the hell did he wind up writing songs that aim to sell and make people dance, rather than to move or impress?_

Eventually his aching curiosity overrides his apprehension and he presses play on the first song again, sipping his wine and trying to be patient. 

Immediately he’s glad to have the lyrics available because right off the bat he thought it said ‘red wine’ instead of ‘red one’ at first. He’s never been great with lyrics.

Oliver frowns a little at the first verse and pauses, hoping the song isn’t about Elio’s actual personal experiences. He’s listed as the primary songwriter on most of the songs including this one and Oliver doesn’t want to think about him this drunk, this vulnerable without him around to keep him safe… 

He reassures himself that Elio looked fine and healthy on the stage and takes a moment to marvel at the situation once more before pressing play again. 

He’s got to admit the chorus is catchy – he’s heard it on the radio but never paid it much mind because it’s pop… he knows he’ll probably find himself humming it throughout the day tomorrow now.

He’s definitely also heard parts of the next two songs many times in shopping centres and surfing through radio stations – the lyrics are pretty unsophisticated and vulgar but that’s pop, he supposes. 

_Elio’s probably just getting his job done with the lyrics on these ones… I hope… God, this album is so popular, how has Sami not mentioned this?_

_…Then again, why would he, really?_

When the woman sings about following someone until they love her… Oliver can’t keep out of his mind that, _That part might be about me, it might be about me… Hyperbolic obviously but it could be about me…_

Elio’s not credited on the next couple so he skips them – he honestly could not care less about anything Elio didn’t have a hand in. 

He’s realising, as he listens to the intro of another song he’s definitely heard before, how utterly _starved_ of information about Elio he’s been. He feels like he’s chasing a carrot on a stick and never quite getting it with these songs, but he’s still going to listen to, and dissect, and obsess over these fucking pop songs for months unless he does something about it.

He’s got to find out more somehow but he’ll have to think of something later.

More lyrics about partying, this time seemingly in a casino. 

He can’t picture Elio in a casino, it seems too vulgar and commercial for Elio. Then again, this whole record feels too vulgar and commercial for Elio. It would definitely make you dance though, Oliver gives… they’re objectively good pop songs.

Oliver blushes a little again at the lyric about how ‘if it’s not rough it isn’t fun’, except this time it’s because he’s imagining all the different situations his curious, bold Elio has probably gotten himself into since he last saw him… He’s not jealous this time, imagining watching Elio getting rough with some anonymous stranger in the dark, not taking his eyes off of Oliver the whole time over the man’s shoulder…

_I suppose he’s achieved his goal if he’s aiming to sell sex._

Oliver can definitely see Elio playing around on a guitar and coming up with the riff at the beginning of the album’s title track, as he enjoys his new American surroundings after landing in this country.

The song is very, very American in its glamorisation of the excesses of the famous and the gloss of Hollywood… _I bet Elio had a whirlwind of a time when he first came here,_ he thinks amusedly.

Or perhaps this one was written after a few songs were released, because it really seems, judging by the lyrics, that Elio really went through something of a personality change after coming into wealth… Oliver laughs a little at the thought of Elio under the influence of Hollywood materialism, hypnotised by the pretty lights and the shiny people for a hot second before calming down. 

It’s not like Elio wasn’t naturally a _little_ bit indulgent and hedonistic to begin with…

The next song isn’t much different – if Elio is behind the lyrics he honestly sounds like he wants to fuck a pile of money. 

Oliver laughs at that thought as well… He stops laughing at the lyrics about being a lover and a mistress after that though. There’s love and sex all throughout the record but it hits him differently every time. 

Oliver has conflicted feelings about all of this information. So many implications, and none of them confirmed to be Elio’s actual experiences or views… he’s going to have to write a letter or something, it’ll drive him crazy if he never knows.

 _He mentioned me in the thank you; it won’t be weird to contact him,_ he reassures himself, still marvelling at the event. He needs a sleep between him and it before he can even try to comprehend it. 

He skips the next song, written by someone else, and lands on a song that sounds far too… dismissive, and cocky, for the Elio Oliver knew… 

_Then again, maybe I was special to him and he’s only like this with everyone else,_ he theorises with a satisfied little smirk, his fears immediately quieted. 

Oliver _is_ a little jealous with this song, because he knows he definitely doesn’t and never will ‘taste just like glitter mixed with rock and roll’ which apparently Elio likes ‘a lot, lot’ and thinks is ‘really hot, hot’. He snorts at that.

He rolls his eyes a little at the chorus, his jealousy melting entirely. _No way Elio wrote that part,_ he thinks with a stifled peal of laughter.

His fondness for the oddly attractive shade of materialism Elio has apparently developed returns with a lyric about getting lost in someone’s Ferrari… His smile only fades when the section ends with the lyric, ‘boys like you love me forever’… 

…Because he will love Elio forever. 

There’s no question in his mind that he’ll always love this person who knew him so well without words and called him by his own name even just for a few weeks in Italy.

He’s certain the lyric isn’t about him – might not even have been written by Elio, or put there for any reason other than that it rhymed… but still, he can’t help but be taken back to that time.

His feelings are starkly at odds with the upbeat music.

Oliver sighs a little sigh of relief when he sees the Brown Eyes song was written solely by the singer, though the question of who _Billy_ is pops back into his mind as he arrives at ‘I Like It Rough’.

 _Maybe this is Billy,_ he thinks bitterly, as he reads the lyrics, seemingly about someone Elio didn’t have a very good time with. He tunes out a little to thoughts of Elio ‘liking it rough’ again, as the song is fairly repetitive, until he finally lands on the last song written by Elio… 

‘Summerboy’.

He’s pretty sure it’s not about him judging by the tone alone and relief shoots through him, until he gets to a section about sunglasses covering up green eyes over a martini while the singer checks out other guys… 

_The martinis in Rome… was he checking out other people the whole time? Is this about me or someone else? Is that the kind of person Elio is now or is he just writing like this to sell?_

_I’m going to lose my mind._

He keeps having to reassure himself that _Elio said my name while accepting a Grammy_ to keep his conspiratorial thoughts at bay.

_God there is too much uncertainty, I’ll die if I leave it here. I need to write to him or call, or… fucking something._

_I can’t believe this day has actually come…_

He begins drafting the letter then and there, turning the music off and settling at the table.

How to start? What to say? ‘Hi’ is probably a good start.

_Hi, Elio._

~~_My kids_~~ ~~_My children were watching the Grammys and_~~

Fuck this is hard. Does Elio even know he has kids? Has Sami told him anything about Oliver’s life?

_Elio,_

_I saw you on my television and you said my name – one of the more surreal moments in my life. You mentioned me, so I bought the album and I have some questions?_

~~_Write to me if you want to talk_ ~~

_I’ve left my number below – give me a call sometime?_

_Yours, Oliver_

It’s not perfect but Oliver thinks it’s an appropriate tone for someone he hasn’t seen in seven years. 

He’ll write it out neatly and send it tomorrow.

God, he’s not going to sleep at all ‘til he gets a reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our boys are gonna meet up next chapter I promise :') 
> 
> Has Elio actually changed? Was he just writing like that for the money or was some of it his own experience? Bit of both? Soon...
> 
> Sorry about the line spacing leaving the letter parts not standing out but I tried for like half an hour to make it fucking do it right and it just swallowed what I wrote and put in a bunch of random bits I didn't put there. I gave tf up.
> 
> Leave me comments pls what do you think what do you want to see happen ♥️☺️


	2. The Fame pt.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio receives Oliver's letter and makes a call...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I am aware that calling someone 'a feral' is not a thing outside of Australia, but I couldn't think of a better word and like, idk, Elio could know an Australian I guess??
> 
> Anyway, this is _much_ shorter than any chapter I've ever uploaded before but this is my fluffy work so I thought I'd just throw it out there. They'll meet in the next chapter - I just wanted to write a changed Elio lol

Oliver jumps whenever the phone rings for three days only to be disappointed each time to hear some other voice on the other end of the line. 

But on the third day he hears the best sound in the world.

“Oliver? It’s me, it’s Elio.”

There's thumping music in the background.

“Elio,” he breathes, a bright smile in his voice. There’s silence for a few seconds before he says, just to say something, “You won a Grammy.”

“I did,” Elio replies, his own proud smile clear in his voice. “…I swear to god no one has stopped partying for three days, if I hear ‘Just Dance’ one more time I’m going to fucking bash my brains in,” he laughs.

“Well that’s what you get for being so good at what you do,” Oliver says with a laugh of his own. 

But then it seems to dawn on them both how insane this is, that they’re actually talking to one another in real time after seven years… The silence in that moment is pregnant, and tense.

“I, uh…” Elio says, finally breaking it. “I was really happy when I got your letter.”

“How long before you could even _read,_ with the celebrations?” Oliver jokes, but it’s half-hearted at best, just instinctual to keep the conversation going. 

“Shut up,” Elio says lightly, but it’s clear he’s not sure how to act either. “I called as soon as it was delivered,” he offers. “I’ve locked myself in my room so I can hear, but… I’m gonna be honest, I’m kind of drunk,” he admits amusedly, unsure how Oliver will feel about it. 

It’s hard for him to tell if he’s embarrassing himself or not.

Oliver huffs a little laugh, easing Elio’s tension. 

“I mean, it’s understandable…” he says, trailing off and looking into the darkness outside. “What time is it, where you are?” 

“I think it’s like, two, in the afternoon.”

“And you’re drunk?” Oliver asks, masking his concern with a laugh as he recalls all those lyrics about partying and being drunk.

“I told you, no one will stop the goddamn party!” Elio defends himself, laughing. “They won’t leave my fucking house, I wake up and someone is putting a drink in my hand.”

Oliver wasn’t sure if it was intoxication or just having lived in New York for so many years at this point, but Elio does talk differently now. He definitely swears a lot more… There’s so little of that precocious articulation left. He likes this shade on him, he thinks, but he’s not sure how he feels about something he loved about Elio being gone without him noticing it go. 

_What was I doing when those last careful European elements disappeared from his cadence?_

_How many other things are gone now?_

…But Oliver shouldn’t think like that – he’s married. He does love his wife and he loves his children and if Elio has changed that’s Elio’s business, and it’s not like something could come of it even if he were precisely the same person anyway...

A protective part of Oliver wants to chastise Elio for being day-drunk, but Elio is an adult now, and to be fair… he did just win a Grammy, so he chooses to move on to other topics.

“It’s weird that you have a house,” Oliver says with a quiet, proud smile.

“I do have a place, yeah… two, actually,” Elio says, seeming not to know what to say, but also sounding much more comfortable in the stilted conversation than Oliver is, through the drink. 

It’s unbearable for the older man.

“Well I don’t want to keep you from the party…” he starts, but Elio isn’t having it.

“Shut up, Oliver,” he says, no-nonsense. “I mentioned you for a reason, you can have some of the time I’ve been wasting. These people don’t mean anything; not compared to you.”

Oliver frowns, pained.

“Elio… I can’t, uh—"

“I know you can’t,” Elio pacifies quickly, sounding resigned at first, and then a little bit easier as he continues. “I know _we_ can’t. I don’t wanna… I just wanna see you. Just as friends. You said you had questions, I can answer them.”

Oliver hesitates. He does want his questions answered and he does want to see this changed Elio… And if they both know they’re not going to do anything…

“I do have questions,” he says finally. And then it dawns on him to ask with a tilted head, “Where are you? I know you moved to New York when you finished school, but—”

“I’m in LA. Stef and I have been living here for a year or two, but… I can fly to New York to be there literally tomorrow. I have a few free days.”

“Wow, that’s—” 

How does Oliver communicate that this really does have to be a meeting between two _friends?_

“…I’ll have to ask Micol to watch the kids while I’m out.”

There’s silence on the line for a moment before Elio replies with an amused snort, only slightly tinted with a hint of annoyance.

“Subtle, Oliver. That was very subtle, say hi to the kids for me,” he huffs with an eye roll Oliver can practically hear, before softening. 

“…Look, I’ll book flights and a hotel tonight, and I should be looking at you tomorrow.”

“You can stay with us if you—”

“Oliver, I can afford it,” Elio says, becoming serious. “I’m not about to jump your bones, but I can’t meet your family. I just… I can’t,” he says, more vulnerable than he’s been the whole conversation. 

Elio takes a grounding breath and says more lightly, “I’ll book some fancy five star hotel with spa treatments and food included or something and the whole thing will go down a lot smoother.”

“Moneybags,” Oliver accuses, going for light though he knows his tone is heavier than he would like.

There’s silence again for a few moments before there’s a rustling on the other end of the line and a drunken voice in the background before Elio replies.

“Oh my fucking _god_ Whittaker, just because you _can_ pick a lock with a hairpin doesn’t mean you _should_ , you fucking feral.”

Oliver is still shocked to hear so much swearing out of Elio – he doesn’t think he’s heard him swear once before this conversation, but he supposes New York, LA – and apparently alcohol – will do that to someone.

He’s even more interested to see everything that’s influenced Elio now. His expression is halfway between an amused smile and a grimace as he replies. 

“Hey, I’m gonna let you get back to the party – ah... drink some water, okay?”

“Alright, _dad,”_ Elio laughs before giving Oliver his own number and promising he’ll call to confirm when and where they’ll meet up.

Oliver sits by the phone for a few minutes after they hang up, unsure what he’s feeling. 

He’s certainly proud of Elio for his success, and glad to see he’s kept growing and changing and seeking out new things, but… He thinks it’s going to be strange to see him again; he seems to have changed so much…

 _I wonder what Sami and Annella think about it all,_ he thinks with a little laugh. _Elio has gone so far off their beaten track…_

He’ll just have to wait and see, he thinks, frightened and excited at the prospect of spending a whole evening with Grammy-winner Elio Perlman tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pls I crave validation, tell me if you laughed or thought it was at all not-boring lol


	3. The Fame pt.3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver meet up, and Oliver realises how much Elio has changed but also how much he hasn't...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello this was fun to write :')
> 
> Has Elio really changed that much?
> 
> (The talk about how Gaga's goal from the beginning was to introduce queer culture to the mainstream is true, I based it on something she said, and once you're looking for it and comparing it to other stuff being released at the time, she was really already doing that even before the Born This Way era)

_Elio looks good for someone who’s been partying for three days straight,_ is Oliver’s first thought when he sees him. 

He’s wearing all black, leather jacket, plain t-shirt, form-fitting jeans, boots… it’s much slicker than anything Oliver has seen on him before but it really suits him, with his pale skin and his dark hair – longer now, the curls falling into waves. His skin does look a little bit more tanned than it was even in Italy. 

_Must be LA’s influence,_ Oliver muses. 

His next thought is, _God, you could cut glass on that jawline,_ and he has to stop his train of thought before it goes off the rails.

Oliver suddenly feels a little bit… lame, in his button down and slacks. He hasn’t stopped caring about his clothing or his body by any stretch but he’s certainly paid them less attention since becoming a husband and especially a father. There’s just so much less time… He knows he still looks good but he takes a moment to mourn how sculpted his abs used to be before he stands to give Elio a greeting hug.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” Elio says breathlessly right next to Oliver’s ear as he squeezes him.

“Me either,” Oliver agrees, unable to keep himself from beaming as they sit down, immediately ordering drinks. Oliver orders a neat whisky and raises an eyebrow at Elio’s order of a Long Island Iced Tea.

“You’re going to sip that, right?”

Elio laughs uncertainly, worried he doesn’t know how to interact with Oliver anymore but knowing from much experience that the alcohol will help him be more comfortable.

“Don’t worry Oliver,” he placates, putting on the confident front he does with everyone recently. “I’m not seventeen anymore; I’m not going to throw up.” 

_Not what I was worried about._

“I swear to god my tolerance has increased tenfold in the last three days alone.”

_Definitely time to get away from this topic, my protectiveness can’t take it._

Oliver gestures around the room, raising his eyebrows.

“This place is pretty… upmarket,” he comments, as it occurs to him that he should have checked the price on what he was ordering – it didn’t sound like a super expensive whisky but who knows?

“Don’t worry, I’m staying here. I told them to put it on my bill so it’s all my dime,” Elio replies with a cocky grin, shining his nails on his shirt before laughing. It’s not a gesture Oliver would ever have pictured Elio making before now, even as a joke.

“You’ve really enjoyed having money, haven’t you?” Oliver muses.

“Well I certainly appreciate it a lot more now that I’ve been broke as shit and actually had to haul ass to _make_ money,” he laughs.

Oliver winces a little at the sound of Elio swearing again. He doesn’t like the thought of Elio’s mouth forming such harsh sounds.

Or maybe what he doesn’t like is that the change really does suit Elio. It wasn’t just the alcohol making him speak differently on the phone yesterday. New York and LA really have rubbed off on him, and seemingly a lot. He seems much more confident but Oliver is suspicious of that, given how open and tender he sounded on the phone yesterday.

_Maybe he’s doing what I used to do and pretending to be confident to cover up uncertainty._

“What are you looking so thoughtful about?” Elio asks curiously over the rim of his glass as he sips.

Oliver could tell him the truth but he doesn’t want him to feel weird or conscious of his new speech, so he thinks quickly.

“I uh… I was thinking about what your parents think about all of this.”

Elio lets out a huff, rolling his eyes and blowing hair out of his eyes in a way the Elio Oliver knew never would have.

_Is it that he’s more expressive now; more comfortable in his actions, or is he only feigning confidence? Is it that he’s adopted others’ actions to feel comfortable in New York and LA? Which Elio is the real one?_

But Oliver doesn’t have time to dwell, with Elio moving forward.

“They think I’m not contributing anything to the world and I’ve let America hypnotise me and sold my soul to the gods of materialism, basically.”

“Have you?” Oliver asks with a raised eyebrow and a little smirk to cover that he shares their fears to an extent.

“No,” Elio rolls his eyes again, grinning. “I mean I’ve _definitely_ sold my soul, but…”

As he trails off he suddenly becomes serious.

“We _are_ contributing to the world. I mean, aside from making people dance and making people happy, Stef’s – and then my – goal with the whole Gaga thing from the start was to inject queer culture into mainstream culture. And I think she’s doing a great job of that with the visuals. It seems like no one has even realised yet,” he marvels. “But they love it. And she’s only going to take it further. I swear; popular culture like this changes things.”

Oliver is fascinated by Elio’s passion for this and his articulacy when talking about it – _He didn’t even swear once,_ he thinks only semi-jokingly. It’s strange to see Elio talking so keenly about this.

Because when he and Elio were together they were just… drawn to one another. They didn’t necessarily identify with any particular community, or feel a sense of community with other men attracted to men… 

Or at least Oliver didn’t feel that. 

Doesn’t feel that.

They were both well versed in philosophy and ethics at the time, but not necessarily social issues, and certainly not as invested as it seems Elio is now. 

_Is that something that changed in New York, or before?_

Elio sees Oliver thinking and tilts his head, frowning at his silence. 

“I mean you’ve, like… bred, with a woman but you know that it’s your culture too, right?”

When Oliver says, “No it’s not,” it’s clear that Elio misinterprets his meaning as he raises an eyebrow.

 _“Oh fuck,”_ he says, eyes wide. “My mistake. Was it someone else’s throbbing cock in my hairless teenage ass?” he asks facetiously, feigning shock with a hand raised to his mouth.

_God, his language. Has raising children made me more sensitive to this?_

“That’s not what I meant,” Oliver asserts, his voice harder than maybe he intends it to be.

“Then what do you mean?” Elio asks, a little defensive of the culture he was so immersed in living in New York – without it he wouldn’t be where he is and neither would Stef.

“I mean… I mean, it’s not my culture,” he says simply with a shrug. “It has almost nothing to do with me. My culture is the university and kids soccer games and my books.”

Elio raises an eyebrow, annoyed. 

“You think just because you’ve never been to a gay club it keeps you separated from what goes on there? Maybe it’s not your _scene,_ but it still affects you whether people accept that scene. If that culture was in the mainstream when we were together what we had might have been acceptable and we might still be—” 

Elio abruptly cuts himself off, biting his lip and looking to the side. 

He’s become so involved in this for a lot of reasons, but one of them is undeniably that he wants people like him and Oliver not to have to hide, and give huge parts of themselves up to exist acceptably within society. 

Elio sighs. 

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t come here to accuse you of anything or talk about that. I know it doesn’t matter what we had back then anymore.”

Elio shakes his head and Oliver frowns sympathetically, not liking seeing him get worked up.

“Of course it matters,” Oliver says softly. “It just… It just can’t be what it was ever again.”

“I know,” Elio mutters, taking a long sip from his glass.

_Probably a whole standard in that one sip,_ Oliver thinks, studying him. 

When Elio places his glass down he meets Oliver’s eyes, and for a moment their connection is naked and unmasked, the world around them becoming fuzzy with the intensity of _seeing_ and _being seen_ , still so inextricably linked despite how they've gone is such different directions...

...But then seemingly at the same time, they remember all the worldly reasons it can never be more than a look between them again, and turn their gazes down to their drinks.

Elio shakes himself and stretches as though trying to reset himself, taking a deep breath and pasting on his best smile as he looks down at Oliver’s drink.

“Catch up,” he says brightly, his voice much lighter than he feels.

Oliver rolls his eyes.

“I’m going to need two more of these if I’m going to catch up with you,” he jokes as he lifts his tumbler, draining it. Elio’s hand is immediately up, pointing at Oliver’s drink and mouthing _double, please_ to the bartender. 

Oliver thinks about protesting but ultimately decides this is a battle he should concede – _At least he said please,_ he thinks. _Maybe he swears like a sailor now but he hasn’t lost all of his decorum…_

Elio drums his fingers on the table, leaning back in his chair.

“So,” he says, finally cutting through the silence. “You said you had questions.”

The sly expression on Elio’s face tells Oliver he thinks this part is going to be a bit of fun… He enjoys thinking there are things about him that Oliver would be interested to know. He loves talking about the music.

But Oliver’s question isn’t one of the million light ones he wants to ask.

“I mean…” he hesitates. “There’s kind of one question that would make most of the rest of them irrelevant.”

Elio nods his thanks as the whisky is delivered to the table, and gestures for Oliver to continue. The older man takes a deep breath, and a sip, and just asks.

“Was any of it about me?”

It feels momentous to Oliver to ask, but Elio just shakes his head without hesitation. 

“Not a word.”

There’s silence for a moment. Oliver is confused, trying to mask his disappointment with a frown.

“I don’t understand,” he says. “Why thank me then?”

Elio puffs out his cheeks, letting a breath out. He’s not sure how Oliver will feel about the truth.

“Well, I mean you’re _you_ , to me, but also… This part might be kind of weird for you,” he admits, uncomfortable. 

Oliver studies his discomfort, mentally confirming his earlier thoughts, about which Elio is the real one, as that confident front comes all the way down - now that he’s downed most of the cocktail.

He nods for Elio to continue.

“I was… kind of going to crash your wedding?” he says. “Well, not kind of. I was going to crash your wedding, and like… object, or whatever.”

Oliver isn’t sure what to feel about that, frowning thoughtfully as Elio moves forward swiftly.

“Mom and Dad told me that they couldn’t stop me but that if I was going to go to New York I had to do it without any help from them. They wanted me to go to university and wouldn’t support me doing such a potentially life-ruining thing to you, which, logically, I knew they were right about, but I went anyway because I was young, and stupid, and stupidly in love with you, and I had enough money for a one way ticket and maybe two weeks of motels…”

 _You_ were _young? You_ are _young,_ Oliver thinks. _You_ were _in love with me? …Are you not anymore?_

He wants to know, but he can’t ask because the answer will hurt either way and Elio has already moved on with his spiel.

“It was the day of your wedding and I realised that I couldn’t do it – it was much more to do with cowardice than with doing the right thing, so I was angry that I put myself in that situation and I ended up in this seedy jazz bar because I couldn’t afford to drink anywhere else… And then I met Stef there, that night. And we were both feeling bitter and drunk and we just clicked. She let me stay with her and we played a few songs at hers and then… Every single thing that’s happened now has happened because of you, in one way or another.”

There’s a long silence. Elio’s mind immediately goes into panic mode, thinking maybe he’s just ruined whatever kind of friendship they could still have had with the truth…

But then Oliver laughs. 

Just a little at first, but it quickly builds to an affectionate peal of laughter, the alcohol only encouraging it as it continues.

“Don’t fucking laugh at me,” Elio laughs, sipping his drink, but Oliver continues through his laughter.

“God, I’m just picturing naive little European Elio Perlman arriving at JFK with no money and no job and realising how stupid that was,” he manages to get out. 

“Shut up!” Elio slaps his arm lightly. “I fucking _paid_ for that stupidity, I was so broke I literally ate, like, _just_ stale bread for months. Stef was the only reason I wasn’t actually homeless.”

“Come on, you could have called your parents, they would have let you come home,” Oliver insists, still laughing and believing that Elio’s pride stopped him from going home. 

But then Elio looks down, suddenly sombre.

“I don’t know if they would have. They were _really_ mad at me for what I was going to do… Things still aren’t really the same…”

“I’m… sorry, about that,” Oliver says softly, his laughter forgotten.

“Not your fault,” Elio shrugs, finishing his cocktail.

 _But it is a little,_ Oliver’s mind insists. _If you’d never met me…_

“Oliver I can see you thinking from here, it’s not your fault,” Elio asserts, holding his gaze with eyes becoming shiny with drink. “If you think it is your fault then everything else that’s happened is too, so take the good parts too.”

Oliver just nods and sips at his whisky, reflecting. 

He doesn’t want to get _drunk,_ but he doesn’t want to get too far behind Elio, who is ordering another drink – a cosmopolitan this time. 

“You’re into cocktails now?” Oliver asks with a grin, feeling the effects of the whisky. He wouldn’t have picked it.

“Never got to have ‘em before,” Elio shrugs. “Got money now.”

“You talk differently,” Oliver finally says, bluntly, his tongue drink-loosened. He really doesn’t drink much these days so it’s hitting him harder than he remembers. “You’re even giving up on complete sentences,” he laughs.

Elio tilts his head as his mouth curves up into a playful grin. 

_“Désolé, Oliver. Je vais parler en phrases complètes pour toi. C'est mieux pour toi? Ou est-ce que tu préféres que je parle d'une autre manière?”_

Oliver groans and takes another sip.

“You are unbearable,” he laughs, shaking his head. 

The tension is gone with the masks dropped, and the confessions out of the way, and the drinks flowing freely – much more freely than Oliver is prepared for, he thinks.

He asks Elio to tell him more about how he and Stefani got to where they are, and the conversation flows easily from there.

Elio explains that at first he was just scrambling to get ‘shithouse gigs’ with Stef playing jazz and classic rock for free food or drink. It took some time but with her voice and his playing eventually they were getting paid in cash, and asked to perform rather than having to seek venues out.

Over time he got to writing his own music to perform, which naturally drifted more towards the dance music he was hearing in the gay clubs he was going to with Stef as he became more immersed in the culture.

“People were picking up what we were putting down so she just kept taking it further with the theatrics and I wrote to match.”

They’re pretty drunk by the time Oliver starts asking his more specific questions, both of them having to try to get their words out without slurring.

“Do you have a favourite song on the album?”

“Hmm…” Elio considers. “I can’t fuckin’ stand the big ones anymore, so maybe like… ‘The Fame’?”

Oliver wrinkles his nose at that before singing mockingly, “ _’Pornographic girls on film and body plastic’_ , really?”

Elio raises a brow. 

“Absolutely, Oliver. Can you deny the truth that you, like everyone else in this country, also want to see _'television and hot blondes in odd positions'_?”

“You sound like you want to fuck a pile of money in half those songs,” Oliver jokes, voicing his thoughts as he was listening the night before.

Elio makes a face.

“Um, _yeah_ I wanted to fuck a pile of money Oliver. I had literally fucking _less_ than no money. Money is _veery_ sexy when you have none,” he explains, taking a sip of his almost fluorescent pink drink.

With the number of empty glasses growing Elio is only too happy to divulge all the details of his and Stefani’s rise – some of them sordid.

“You did _what?”_ Oliver asks a few minutes later, after struggling not to choke on his drink.

“Look,” Elio manages to get out between laughs. “ _Look_ , I didn’t _proposition_ him, he just assumed! And I was fucking broke! I was fucking him because he was _hot,_ for _free,_ but he said he’d leave the money on the dresser so I just let him think whatever and took it when I went!” 

But Oliver’s eyes are only getting wider.

“But that still means you were coming on so strong he literally thought you were a prostitute.”

“I am a fallen woman,” Elio says factually with a nod and a sip before giggling again. “Hey I guess at least it means I’m hot enough to be paid for,” he snorts intoxicatedly but Oliver just shakes his head incredulously. “Whatever, I came first.”

Oliver asks Elio about his obvious comfort being physical with Stefani, which he could see even just from their short walk to the stage at the Grammys.

“Have you two ever… you know?”

Elio laughs at that like he’s remembering something.

Oliver is so happy the night managed to become lighter than it was near the start, because he thinks he’s going to treasure the sound of _‘Elio Perlman’s drunk, happy laughter as I sit with him a few days after he won a Grammy’_ for the rest of his life.

It feels special.

But he does want to know, so he interrupts said laughter.

“Well, have you?”

Elio nods through his laughter. “Once, _once_. It was a tiny bed and we were so, _so_ drunk.”

Oliver smiles wide, enjoying hearing all the wild things Elio has gotten up to because he’s not been tied down by a serious relationship with someone so much older. Elio’s joy makes Oliver _ache_ to touch him but his stories only confirm to him that while it hurt, he made the right decision in leaving. 

Elio is having the time of his young life and trying to change the world, and Oliver has a wife he truly loves and two amazing children at home… things are as they should be.

After one particularly vulgar string of expletives and arguably one too many drinks Oliver finally snaps.

“Oh my god would you stop swearing!” he exclaims with an exasperated, disbelieving smile. “You swear like a sailor!”

Elio cackles at Oliver’s outrage, “Fuck off, I barely swear.”

Oliver cannot believe what he is hearing.

“You literally _just_ swore!”

“Oh, _fuck!”_

_“Elio!”_

_“Ass!”_

Elio’s laughter at his own loud vulgarity is infectious but they do get a few looks at that, so they decide it’s probably time to switch to coffee, still giggling and trading stories – though Oliver much prefers to listen to Elio’s slang-filled stories than to share his own. 

He really doesn’t have many interesting ones to share.

Elio seems to have countless wild stories full of excess and names of people Oliver doesn’t know. It’s strange to think how many people there are in Elio’s life that Oliver doesn’t know nowadays… It all sounds very superficial and shallow with those people and Elio knows that, but he’s having fun so he doesn’t seem worried about it.

An hour or two after they’ve switched to coffee Oliver finally says he has to go, with a disappointed sigh.

“I have to be up for work,” he sighs, looking at his watch forlornly.

“Oh god, you’re fu—screwed.”

Oliver huffs good-naturedly, shaking his head. “Your mouth, I swear…”

“No, _I_ swear,” Elio replies, tittering at his own joke.

“You’re such a goose,” Oliver replies fondly, leaning his head on his hand, elbow on the table. 

At that Elio stops laughing and meets his gaze, becoming very serious as it occurs to him that there’s something he hasn’t said. 

“You know… I have written songs about you, Oliver. Just not for a label.”

“Oh,” is all Oliver can think to say at first, unexpectedly touched. “Do you think I could hear them one day, maybe?”

He looks so hopeful it breaks Elio’s heart to have to deny him.

“No,” he says definitively, sombre. 

“Oh,” Oliver says again, visibly crestfallen, unsure of what to make of it.

“Oliver nothing good could possibly come from that.”

He still looks disappointed, but he is understanding when he replies.

“I suppose you’re right.”

Elio knows there’s nothing they can say to encompass the joy and the sorrow of the night, and the pain of every night they’ve been apart for the last seven years… so instead of saying anything he stands and gives Oliver a kiss on the cheek that is perhaps a little too intimate for two friends, but it’s fine, because it goes no further. 

Elio knows he can’t try something without hurting Oliver. The Oliver he knows would never recover if he cheated on his partner. It’s something he loves and admires about him, even if he sometimes wishes it wasn’t there.

They hug, squeezing each other tight for a long time before they pull back to meet eyes once more. Elio nods, echoing his actions when Oliver left him on that train platform seven years ago, telling him without words, _It’s alright to go. It’ll break me but I know you have to go…_

It breaks Oliver’s heart to do it but he turns around and walks away from Elio once more. Elio sits down and orders one last drink. It’s not like he has to go far to get to his bed anyway.

Oliver’s not sure what he’s thinking, as he heads to the bathroom before he leaves. Elio is still so close, but their night is over – and who knows when they’ll get another one? Elio will be all the way back across the country tomorrow… will they talk on the phone now? About what? How often?

 _We could be friends, right?_ his brain supplies as he washes his hands. _Tonight was hard but it also convinced me that I made the right choice, and Elio seems to get that even if he feels differently about it, we could be friends…_

As he exits Oliver looks over to their table one last time, for one last glimpse… but Elio isn’t there. He turns his head around to see his one-time lover leaning against a counter with a man and a woman – seemingly a couple – on either side of him, clearly talking him up.

_I was right. This is why I was right to leave…_ Oliver thinks, sadly and fondly. _This is exactly the kind of youthful abandon he can have because he’s not tied to me. He’d have given it up in a second but he would have resented me in the end…_

It occurs to Oliver in that moment that he forgot to ask about Billy Whittaker, but looking at the way the woman in that couple is trailing a finger down Elio’s chest, and the enraptured, hypnotised look on his face as his heated eyes follow its path to his belt… Billy Whittaker is probably not Elio’s boyfriend.

Oliver chuckles affectionately one last time as he watches the three of them head towards the elevator, and turns around, leaving Elio to his evening. 

It occurs as he walks out the door that maybe Elio is taking the couple to his bed to forget how he feels about Oliver, and somehow that both warms and freezes Oliver’s heart…

_God this is so bittersweet; it’s such a sweet ache… This can’t be the last time I see Elio Perlman._

_We can never…_

_But I have to see him again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :'))))) I still very much crave validation so let me know if you thought it was fun ♥️
> 
> If you want some funnies I made a [CMBYN crack video](https://vimeo.com/392427145) (do they still call them crack videos??) and just never posted it so here it is now boom (tbh most of the stuff that makes me laugh is after a third of the way through woops). Or if it's angst you seek I made [this](https://vimeo.com/392248726) video about if Elio didn't take his dad's advice and fucked up


	4. The Fame Monster pt.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver goes to visit Elio after months of email correspondence to find that perhaps Elio hasn't been entirely forthcoming with him about his relationship with his current boyfriend Reid... The truth quickly comes out and the situation is dealt with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _I've put a trigger warning in the end of the chapter notes if you think you might need to check it._  
> 
> 
> Alrighty, so I listened to The Fame Monster and it feels very dark at times so this came out. This story was supposed to be a bit of fluff, but apparently I'm just an angst factory... so!
> 
> Note: The Grammys are in February but I needed more time for Elio and Reid to have been together so I put them/the events of the first three chapters in very early January. This takes place in mid-November 2009, when The Fame Monster was released.
> 
> (This chapter was originally even longer but I'll put the next part in the next chapter - very tired as of posting so I’ll probably read through for mistakes tomorrow)

They send a few emails back and forth over the coming months, revealing slowly the events of their professional and personal lives – or at least edited versions. 

Oliver tries to take information about Elio only from Elio himself, choosing to avoid learning about his activities from magazines or press releases – it’s too surreal the first time he sees Elio on the cover of a magazine, exiting a club laughing next to his bizarrely dressed best friend.

But then Oliver gets a call from Elio asking to meet up again, when a re-issue of The Fame with new songs is to be released on the weekend. He can’t deny it sends his heart racing to hear it – Elio let slip in one of their emails that one song has a few parts about Oliver in it and he’s dying to hear it.

He also lets it slip that much more of the new work is about his current boyfriend, Reid, who Elio has been with since late January and who Oliver thinks sounds like kind of an asshole. But he tells himself he’s biased and tries to quash the churning jealousy in his stomach.

 _You gave up any claim you had on him,_ he tells himself firmly.

This time Elio flies Oliver out to LA to meet him at lunchtime since he’s supposed to be at another release party in the evening. Micol frowns at the arrangement, suspecting that there’s something her husband isn’t telling her with how far the two seem to be willing to go to see each other. But he manages to get himself to the airport without incident – if she says anything it will be after he returns. 

Oliver doesn’t know what he expected, but business class is very nice – he’s certainly never flown anything but economy before, so with his height the leg room is a godsend. The hotel is nothing to scoff at either.

With the still-building success of Lady Gaga, Elio certainly hasn’t gotten any less wealthy.

Oliver finds himself seated at a table in another upscale restaurant – this time a light and airy place overlooking the sea. It’s very LA. He orders a nice champagne with two glasses for the table and sighs contentedly as he takes a sip, enjoying the quiet while he can. Max and Grace are only getting louder, it seems… 

It’ll be nice to break the silence to see Elio again, though.

_Maybe a little too nice, Oliver._

A few minutes later the peaceful sound of the sea breeze is broken by shouting voices on the street outside. Oliver turns around to see two men arguing outside the restaurant, seemingly heedless of the fact that they’re in public. 

It takes Oliver a moment to realise that one of them is Elio, and so the other, taller man must be Reid. The fight seems pretty intense and physical, complete with rough shoulder-gripping – at one point it even looks like it might come to blows, but right at the boiling point the other man pulls Elio into an almost violent kiss. 

Even that looks like a fight for power. 

It feels like something private that Oliver shouldn’t be watching but he can’t tear his eyes away as Elio pushes the other man away roughly and stalks into the restaurant looking like a pissed off tiger. 

Oliver turns his head around, not wanting to be caught staring.

But when Elio doesn’t arrive at the table in the next few seconds Oliver turns back around to see him at the bar, lifting a shot and swallowing, nodding his thanks and standing there for a moment as though collecting himself.

Oliver doesn’t try to hide that he saw it this time as Elio comes over. 

Elio falls into his chair and huffs, pressing his thumbs into his eyes and taking a few breaths before turning to face Oliver.

“I’m really sorry to come in here like that,” he says genuinely, immediately wishing he could start over. He doesn’t want Oliver to see him this way, especially because he never would have behaved like that when they were together – things are just so different for him here…

Now that Oliver is facing Elio front-on he can see a small bruise on his cheek; it doesn’t look bad but it does look fresh. He nods to the mark and gestures to its position on his own face.

“Where did you get that?”

Elio frowns in confusion and brings a hand to press the bruise, wincing.

“Oh,” he says. “I don’t really think we should talk about that, at least not right now.”

Oliver’s frown only deepens at the avoidance. 

“Well I really think we should,” he says insistently, as it dawns on him how much of his life Elio might have hidden from him in his correspondence.

_Has he gotten into a bar fight or something? Has he finally changed so much that I don’t know him anymore? None of this so far is consistent with the Elio I know._

Elio sighs, pouring himself a glass of the champagne. Oliver is worried that this trip is going to be something he regrets, and the feeling only deepens when Elio downs the whole glass in one gulp.

“Elio—”

 _“Please,_ Oliver.” He sounds sad and desperate suddenly, his eyes pleading. “Can I please just have a normal conversation that doesn’t end in fighting or fucking or signing a contract?”

Oliver’s heart breaks and his worry skyrockets. 

_Why hasn’t he put anything like this in his emails, I thought he was doing so well…_

“I…” Oliver trails off, truly torn. “I want to give you that, but I can’t just ignore what I saw or the way you’re acting. I can’t have a normal conversation with you until I know you’re okay.”

Elio softens at the concern in Oliver’s voice but it’s clear he just wants to move on.

“Look, I’m not a victim if that’s what you’re worried about. I give him as good as I get – alright?” 

He obviously hopes that will be the end of it but no, it’s not alright. Oliver isn’t letting him off that easily.

“What were you fighting about that got so heated?”

Elio sighs, running a hand over his face, accepting that he’s going to have to talk about this.

“I made the mistake of telling Reid that you and I used to be together and now he thinks I’m going to cheat on him – that I _am_ cheating on him and have been the whole time we’ve been together,” Elio scoffs, as the alcohol begins to affect him and his explanation turns into something closer to venting.

“I _told_ him – who am I taking to the party tonight? You. Whose bed am I sleeping in tonight? Ours. Whose hair am I probably going to be holding back tonight? _Yours._ I don’t know what he wants me to fucking _do,_ just not have a past?”

Oliver is torn between being glad that Elio’s tongue has loosened enough for him to talk so openly and being worried about… literally everything he’s saying and doing. 

_Is this normal for them? I can understand reluctance to have your partner meet up with an old flame, but to get so physical over it…_

“…Sounds kind of possessive,” Oliver offers, unsure how to move forward but desperate to know more.

“I know but I…” Elio frowns thoughtfully, like he’s not sure how he feels about what he’s thinking. “I don’t know, I don’t think I can blame him.”

“Why not?”

Elio pauses, pressing his mouth into a thin line and then biting his lower lip, looking a little bit ashamed.

“I'm the one to escalate it half the time. I worry that I let it escalate because a part of me likes that someone would feel that strongly about holding onto me.” 

Oliver’s heart squeezes at Elio’s words and his unhappy reflective expression – did Elio know how those words would affect him when he said them? 

_I didn’t want to mess you up… are you going to be in relationships like this for the rest of your life because you don’t want them to leave you? This is the only relationship I've heard of you having... Do I blame myself for that?_

But Elio has misinterpreted Oliver’s silence and backtracks his honesty.

“I’m sorry Oliver, you didn’t come here to psychoanalyse me. It’s not fair to dump all of this shit on you. It’s really not that bad, I’m just complaining. Most of the time it's good.”

“Elio,” Oliver sighs, frustrated. “I came here to talk to you and catch up. If this is what’s happening in your life then I came here to talk to you about it. It’s not complaining.” 

_Please don’t close the line of communication, complain to me all you want, please…_

At that Elio seems neither willing to shut the conversation down, nor willing to offer anything more without Oliver asking, and so he asks.

“So Reid gave you that bruise?”

Elio makes an expression as though he’s heard questions like that far too many times.

“It’s not like it’s all the time, or like I haven’t hit him back just as hard when it’s happened. I’m not _scared_ of him.” 

Oliver frowns for what feels like the millionth time in the last few minutes – so Elio doesn’t ever hit first? He doesn’t know if that makes him feel better or worse.

“It doesn’t sound like you bring out good things in each other.”

Elio looks to the side, staring into the ocean for a moment while he thinks. 

He would never admit it, but the reason Elio has stayed with Reid is because he’s the only person with whom he’s found anything close to the intensity of what he felt with Oliver. It’s a volatile, violent passion, but it’s passion. 

He’s had a lot of _fun_ with other people, and _fun_ was great until he was stupid enough to contact Oliver again and remind himself how good things can be. And now he can’t let him go again, or bring himself to try to forget, so he’s trying to keep at least the intensity of the relationship, if not the same feelings.

He chews his lip, annoyed with himself as the silence goes on. He finds that he’s often annoyed with himself nowadays and it makes it very difficult not to be annoyed with other people for little things. He knows he’s been more tetchy lately and everyone thinks it’s just Reid’s influence, but… really, it’s just everything.

He sighs, agreeing with Oliver as he speaks.

“Stef and my parents have said that we bring out the worst in each other about a million times and I know they’re right, but… the bad parts are so bad, but the good parts are _so good._ We’re _so good_ together, physically – even when it gets kind of crazy in a fight it always ends in amazing sex eventually and then we’re all affectionate and starry-eyed and romantic – sometimes for weeks, before we fight again. We make each other the happiest and the angriest. 

“I bet you he’ll get drunk at the party tonight and throw up or something and I’ll help him and he’ll tell me he loves me more than anything in the world and that he knows I’d never cheat on him. And then we’ll fuck and it’ll be great and tomorrow we’ll be smiling over breakfast pancakes in bed. And then it’ll be amazing until one of us picks a fight which could be in two days or in two weeks.”

Oliver makes this face like he doesn’t understand Elio’s logic at all and it brings Elio down to earth so much more than Stefani or his parents telling him he’s being stupid ever has. 

Stef’s seen him do some crazy shit and his parents have been criticising his choices for years but… seeing Oliver look at him like that is new, and it cuts so much deeper.

 _Maybe it really is time to give up on this,_ he thinks, on seeing that face. 

“That’s… not a relationship, Elio,” Oliver says, slowly and disapprovingly. “I don’t know what that is but it’s not a relationship. That’s not love.”

“I know, _I know,_ but…” Elio insists frustratedly, pinching the bridge of his nose as his shoulders drop and he slowly gives up his defence. “I know it’s not what it should be but I _do_ love him,” he says helplessly. “Or, I feel a lot of something for him, and most of the time I think it’s love.”

Oliver’s heart stops at the words. Objectively he knows Elio must love this guy in some way, but to hear him say that about someone who is, in Oliver’s mind, so clearly unworthy of him, and so clearly undeserving of his love… 

It just feels so wrong. 

He deserves to be loved, and to _know_ it’s love.

_You could have kept him from this kind of thing if you were together, if you weren’t such a coward. You two would never have fallen into a cycle like that and he would never have had this confusion with you._

_Shut up, this is nothing to do with you. Get your head out of your ass, Elio needs you._

Elio has clearly been having thoughts of his own in the silence because when Oliver turns back to him his eyes are shiny with tears that he won’t let fall. He wants to keep it together, he’s not going to cry in front of Oliver right now.

“I think maybe I just need to calm down,” he says, looking up and taking a deep breath to ground himself. 

Oliver leans forward and draws his brows together, saying, “Just breathe.”

But Elio shakes his head with a pinched face, looking down at his fiddling hands. It’s probably the most uncertain and conflicted Oliver has ever seen him. 

“I don’t mean right now, I mean… I think I need to _slow down._ I think I need to take a step back, maybe go home for a while where people actually know me… I can’t think clearly here right now, or around him.”

Some of the tension in Oliver’s body releases at that, because for things to get to where they seem to be… it doesn’t sound like Elio _can_ think clearly in LA or around Reid. He must have had doubts before now – they must be swirling in his head to water his eyes right now – and so Oliver is glad that it was Elio who said he needed to slow down and not him.

“I think that’s probably a good idea…” he agrees, encouraging. “Would your parents let you stay with them for a while?”

“Things haven’t been ideal with them, but… I know they’d let me stay if I broke up with Reid.”

Oliver hesitates for what feels like a moment of truth.

“…Are you going to do that?”

“I…” Elio trails off as the conflict on his face finally relaxes into resignation, as he remembers the frowning look of disapproval on Oliver’s face only moments ago, his inability to understand his choices... 

“I think maybe I have to. I think I have to do it tonight, or I'll just let him convince me the good parts are worth the bullshit... the whole cycle will just start again if I let him try to talk me out of it.”

“I think you _should_ do it tonight, if that’s the only way things will change,” Oliver agrees hopefully.

There’s silence for a few more thoughtful moments as they listen to the sea and Elio collects himself while Oliver studies him.

Elio has clearly been caught up in things recently, but it's comforting to Oliver to know that out of all the people's voices telling him it's not good for him... his seems to have driven it home. He does look tired to Oliver - not necessarily dark-eyed tired, just... tired. 

He seems older. 

Eventually Elio interrupts Oliver's thoughts when he pours himself another glass of champagne and tops up Oliver’s, shaking himself to reset just like he did when things got intense the last time they met up. 

He holds up his glass for Oliver to toast, and says, “To things changing I guess. And to having a normal happy conversation now, please.” 

He smiles and it doesn’t meet his eyes, but he looks the most himself he has the whole time, as though he’s pleading with Oliver to please, please, just talk to him like the person he knows himself to be underneath it all. Something relaxes in Oliver’s chest at the sight as their glasses clink. 

It’s like some kind of grime that’s built up on Elio in LA has been wiped clean away by the decision to let it all go for the foreseeable future. 

The wind ruffles his hair, which is shorter again, and the curls sit wild atop his head like the used to so long ago… he’s still wearing very LA clothing, but Oliver can practically smell Mafalda’s cooking and their chamomile soap just looking at Elio as he relaxes into the conversation.

_Maybe it’ll all be okay._

This time it’s Oliver who tells most of the stories, about his family, because Elio certainly doesn’t want to share wild LA party stories when he’s just decided to leave it all behind for a time. 

Half of those stories end in a fight with Reid anyway.

He’d much rather hear about Max’s as yet unsuccessful piano lessons, and Grace’s love of soccer and fairy skirts – and how disastrously those things mixed at a practice one afternoon. He can picture Oliver comforting his daughter, wiping her tears with his big hands and assuring her that the mud _will_ come out, he _promises…_

It’s sweet to imagine, and it’s so far away from everything Elio has been surrounded by in recent years that it feels like taking a shower after a long night out, to sit back and listen to it all. 

He does like seeing Oliver looking so happy talking about his kids, as much as it breaks his heart that his life is so far from Elio’s now and seemingly only getting further away. He still doesn’t know if he could ever meet Oliver’s children without a piece of him dying, but it’s nice to hear about it all in that moment.

He’s not entirely sure what to make of the way Oliver talks – or more accurately, doesn’t talk – about Micol. It’s normal for there to be a bit of a cooling in a marriage when kids come along to take up all the energy, but Oliver doesn’t mention Micol at all until Elio asks.

“Oh, she’s fine. She’s still teaching at the same place.”

And that’s it. Oliver immediately moves on to a story about a student who accidentally handed in some kind of membership application instead of his assignment last semester.

He can’t keep his thoughts from wandering, but after the way he came in here today after a fight, the crisis he had in front of Oliver, the – frankly embarrassing now that can see it more clearly – issue he told Oliver about… he doesn’t feel he has the right to prod any further. He’s certainly not in a position to be giving relationship advice after that talk.

_Maybe he’ll tell me more soon, but it’s going to be torture to just wait…_

Things do lighten up enough after an hour or two that Elio ends up talking a little bit about the music again – he doesn’t mind telling fun LA stories about him and Stef, it’s only everyone else he doesn’t want to think about. She’s been mad at him for his recent choices but she’s been where he is in love and she’s still his best friend. 

“She has to learn way too much choreography for videos and performances, but she wouldn’t let it be any less spectacular or theatrical than it is. It’s only been about a week since the video was released but people are going pretty crazy for ‘Bad Romance’.”

“I did see that… she really went all out, huh?” Oliver laughs over his glass as he suddenly realises how much less Elio is swearing this time, pleasantly surprised.

“Well she wasn’t exactly going to do something smaller after Paparazzi,” Elio replies amusedly.

“Mm, whose idea was _that_ story?”

Elio laughs easily, “Mine, actually. At least the bit before the music starts. Not so much the revenge. It was based on a dream I had…” Oliver tilts his head, raising an eyebrow. Elio laughs again, “Yes, that kind of dream.”

Oliver scrunches his nose, unable to keep the smile off his face. “You had a sex dream about getting murdered?”

“Well the murder part woke me up actually; it was mostly the fancy-house Scandinavian-guy sex that I liked – but you know, murdered by a hot Scandinavian guy? Why not?” Elio smirks, taking a dainty sip.

“Hope it was ‘rough’ enough for you,” Oliver murmurs, looking to the side, still smiling.

The conversation stays light and easy until the sun begins to dip and Elio sighs. 

“I’m going to have to call Stef soon to let her know I won’t be at the party.”

“You won’t be?” Oliver asks, surprised. He figured Elio was planning on leaving _soon,_ not literally tonight.

Elio shakes his head.

“I’ve got to just do it or I’ll talk myself out of it or get talked out of it. I’ve got to just make the calls, book the flights, gather up the shit I care about, and go. I don’t know how I’m going to get it all out of the place if Reid is there, but I have to.”

Oliver is uncertain if it’s an overstep as he asks, “…Do you want me to come with you?” 

Elio considers for a moment.

“I mean, like I said, I’m not _scared_ of Reid, but… I don’t know how he’ll react to me leaving; it could be a good idea to have someone with me,” Elio’s expression turns pleading. “Would you?”

Oliver has offered but Elio still feels like he’s asking too much in that moment. 

Oliver replies without a hint of uncertainty.

“Of course I would. I’d feel much better if I was with you, especially if it’s gotten… physical, before.”

Elio has always wanted to roll his eyes at everyone’s reaction to their bad fights – especially because they almost always end in such mind-blowing sex, but really… he does know it’s not good, or healthy, or something he wouldn’t be concerned about if it were someone else. It just never feels like a big deal when it’s happening, just an escalation. It feels like just another way to fight for dominance, and it only happens when things get _really_ bad…

It doesn’t feel that crazy with how crazy everything else happening in LA all the time still feels.

But yes, Oliver is right, this could be something different; he doesn’t know how Reid will react. 

The next thing they know the bill is paid and they’re in a taxi with Elio on the phone trying to organise things.

It’s strange for Oliver to hear him booking tickets and making arrangements with such authority after hearing about his disastrous love life – “If there’s nothing in business class just book it first class, I just need to be on a flight out tonight. No, not tomorrow morning. That’s not going to work, it has to be tonight.”

Ten minutes later they’re pulling up at Elio’s house. Oliver isn’t sure what he’s been picturing but it’s pretty fancy. Stylishly boxy, split level, clean lines, well-maintained greenery… It’s unquestionably a beautiful piece of architecture but it’s not Elio at all, at least to Oliver. 

“Reid’s car isn’t here,” Elio says, unlocking the front door. “I own the place but he’s basically been living here so this is lucky.”

Oliver can’t decide if Elio looks comfortable in the house or like a kid playing pretend as he grabs essentials from around the place and takes his suitcase towards the bedroom… maybe he looks comfortable from living here so long, but in some way it just doesn’t feel like he belongs here to Oliver. 

It’s not that it’s too big, because the villa was probably even bigger and he fit there perfectly… He must have left all his art and books in his room when he left for New York, Oliver thinks, because everything in the house is new. Maybe that’s what isn’t fitting for him…

They head to Elio’s room and the bed is unmade, the linen strewn across the frame and onto the floor – _Probably from the fight they had before they left. It looked like it had been going on for a while._

But Oliver is pulled out of his thoughts as Elio gets to work, quickly pulling items out of his drawers and off of hangers and placing them in the suitcase. Oliver isn’t sure what Elio cares about so he just chooses relatively safe bets – he suspects Elio doesn’t particularly care.

One thing does seem to be missing though.

“Do you not have Billowy anymore?” Oliver asks, trying to mask his disappointment. 

“I do, but I left it in Italy when I left for New York.”

Oliver pauses, internally at war. He shouldn’t be bothered by that. He shouldn’t be so attached to this sentimental thing from a past relationship with a wife and kids at home, but… he is attached to it. 

_Is he not?_

Elio must see his face because he pauses for a moment to speak, genuinely.

“Oliver, I left it because I didn’t know what was going to happen in New York. I couldn’t risk it getting lost or ruined. I put it in a sealed bag so it wouldn’t get motheaten and asked my mom to keep it safe, and she promised she would.”

Oliver is nodding in acceptance, about to reply when they hear the front door slam shut.

_“Elio!”_

“Fuck,” Elio says quietly, distressed. He walks towards the door, whispering, “It’ll be fine, just – keep packing stuff. Don’t worry about little things, just the basics.”

Oliver does as he’s asked, but listens intently to what’s being said in the kitchen.

“Elio, what the _fuck_ is a taxi doing just waiting out there? He’s here, isn’t he?”

Reid’s voice is hard and angry, booming through the space. Oliver doesn’t like hearing anyone talk to Elio that way, but Elio said he gives as good as he gets so he just keeps packing. 

“Reid you need to calm down,” Elio says, trying to de-escalate the situation in a way he usually wouldn't if Reid just burst in yelling like that. 

Immediately he can smell vodka, frowning.

"...You didn't drive here did you?"

"Yes Elio, I'm a fucking idiot and I drove here," Reid snaps sarcastically. "Don't dodge the question."

Elio sighs, instantly tired in Reid's presence when he's like this but relieved that at least he had the sense not to drive.

“He _is_ here,” he admits. “But we didn’t do anything.”

“Oh, _bullshit,_ Elio. Do you really expect me to fucking believe that?”

“Yeah, I _do,_ Reid,” Elio replies, suddenly pissed off – it sounds like he’s going to bite. “I do expect you to fucking believe that. Because I’ve never given you any reason to suspect that I would cheat on you, while _you_ got caught with your hand down _fucking Richard’s_ pants, and I let that go. So don’t _talk_ to me about cheating.”

 _God there is so much wrong with this relationship,_ Oliver thinks from the bedroom as he continues throwing things in the suitcase. 

“Jesus _Christ,_ get over it! It was one time, it was a party, that shit _happens_ when you're drunk at parties,” Reid says exasperatedly, obviously rolling his eyes.

“That isn’t just what fucking _happens,_ you fucking—” 

Elio catches himself giving in and cuts himself off, taking a deep breath. Oliver can see what everyone means about them bringing out the worst in each other, but Elio continues very calmly.

“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because we’re done here, either way. We can’t keep fucking doing this forever.”

Reid’s voice softens a little at that. “What do you mean we’re done?”

“I mean." Elio lets out a heavy breath. "...That we’re done. I mean that we are not good for each other, and we shouldn’t be around each other anymore or neither of us will ever be happy.”

It's strange for Oliver to hear the history in Elio's voice in that moment - to imagine that despite everything that has happened, enough has transpired between Elio and Reid that Elio still doesn't want to hurt him in the end... And he knows nothing about it.

There’s silence for a few moments and Oliver doesn’t know what’s happening, but in the kitchen where he can’t see, Reid is pulling Elio in with his brows drawn up sympathetically.

“Elio, baby,” Reid says coaxingly, running his hands up and down Elio’s arms softly. “We _are_ happy,” he insists. “I know we’ve been fighting sometimes but we always make up – you know we always make up baby…” 

His voice turns heated as he pulls Elio in closer and noses at his neck, his hands travelling from his arms to his ass. Elio tries in his mind to resist but he can't deny how good and _right_ it feels when Reid pulls him closer until their hips connect. “You know how good it is when we make up…”

 _God it_ is _so good..._

Elio’s voice sounds small and uncertain, as though he’s trying and failing to resist some kind of hypnotic pull in Reid’s touch. “It’s not just sometimes...” he protests softly, but it sounds like he’s being swayed by the lips at his neck leaving a trail of kisses up to his mouth. 

“Come on baby,” Reid urges, sounding like he’s just putting the last nail in the coffin as he speaks between kisses. “We can make up… right now… and I’ll make you feel so good. You know how good I make you feel… Just stop acting crazy and get rid of Mrs Robinson… And—”

Oliver’s heart is in his throat the whole time, hating hearing the manipulation and nervous about what’s going to happen now. But then he hears what sounds like Elio pushing Reid away into a counter, roughly.

“No,” Elio says, the strength back in his voice. “ _No._ It used to work, but this is never going to work again. I want you out of my house and I want you to stay away from me.”

“I’m not just going to lie down and—”

“Yes, you are,” Elio asserts, giving no ground. “First of all because this is _my_ house and if you don’t leave I will do what I need to do to _make_ you, and second of all because by tomorrow morning I’m going to be in Italy, and you’re sure as shit not setting foot in my parents’ home.”

As he zips up the suitcase Oliver smiles a proud little smile at Elio’s renewed strength, his hesitation at Reid’s persuasion apparently entirely forgotten. He stops smiling at what he hears as he makes his way towards the bedroom door though.

“So you never cheated, but you’re running back to Italy to be some fucking sloppy-seconds _kept boy_ for your _fucking cradle-snatcher?”_ he yells down the hall, clearly meaning for Oliver to hear the last part loud and clear. His earlier coaxing attitude is entirely forgotten as he accuses, “Did he really fuck you up that much?”

Oliver winces, but Elio isn’t even engaging anymore, his voice flat as he replies.

“I’m not going to fight with you, Reid. There’s no fight. Get the fuck out of my house. I’ll get someone to send you your shit.”

Oliver emerges on the last words, holding the suitcase in one hand and Elio’s jacket to wear on the flight in the other.

“You heard him,” he says, feeling a little uncomfortable being present for someone else’s ugly break up – even Elio’s – but feeling much more like this guy needs to _get the fuck out._

At first Reid looks like he might try something but Oliver squares his shoulders and he seems to realise that he’s only going to hurt his pride if does anything. Reid is bigger than Elio but Oliver is much bigger than Reid.

“Whatever,” he spits bitterly, turning around. “Your bony ass was a charity case from the beginning anyway,” and then to Oliver, “Enjoy what’s left of your money-whore prodigy, cradle-robber.”

And with that he’s out the door, and Elio’s blank mask slips, just a little. Oliver puts the bag down with the coat on top and holds his arms out for Elio to fold himself into. 

_God, he’s still so small,_ is all Oliver thinks as he holds him, running a hand across his back. Elio doesn’t really cry though he breathes like he might – he seems too done to sob or cry properly.

“God, I’m so weak…” he sighs miserably.

“I don’t think you’re weak.”

“What he said, just then? Things he’s done…” 

Elio sighs.

“It used to be good, but how did it take this long for me to actually do this? I almost let him convince me to..." He frowns. "Is there something wrong with me?”

“Shh…” Oliver hushes, reassuring. “There’s nothing wrong with you. You just… lost your head, for a little bit.”

“Fuckin’ must have,” Elio laughs with a tight throat, swallowing. "S'embarrassing."

"It's not," Oliver says firmly, unwilling to let Elio even think it.

He's prepared to say more but Elio's tears have already stopped. He leans back out of the hug and looks up with deep gratitude in his eyes.

“Thank you, Oliver. I’m sorry you had to be here for that, but also… I’m really glad that you were here.”

“I’m always going to be here for you,” Oliver says and it’s clear he means it, in every way. Even if he doesn’t believe he can ever have Elio again, he’s never going to stop caring for him, deeply.

“Me too,” Elio says, wiping his cheek dry. “For what it’s worth,” he adds. “I mean I can’t intimidate your asshole boyfriend into leaving your house when you break up with him but I can…” 

Elio trails off before frowning slightly and tilting his head and meeting Oliver's gaze.

“If you ever needed money or something, you’d tell me, right?”

Oliver kisses the top of Elio’s head, laughing at how adult the question is for the seventeen-year-old he once knew without an independent dollar to his name, and placing an arm around him as they walk towards the door.

“Yes, I promise I’ll tell you if I ever suddenly and desperately need money.”

He feels closer to Elio in that moment as they walk. He feels close to him as they lock the door and head down Elio’s walkway. He feels close to him as they pull out of the driveway and Elio’s house disappears in the back window.

_We’ve had all those spectacular romantic highs, but this is real life. We still work together in real life. We can still have moments like this, even if… Even if._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for domestic violence - I'm not going to call it abuse because Elio says he always hits back and just as hard, but it is stated that he's never the one to hit first.
> 
> Right! To be continued in the next chapter... I'll have to listen to Born This Way and ARTPOP to decide which songs Elio wrote and what story I think works with those songs, and by extension how I can bring the boys back together in the end because everyone seems to really want that :')
> 
> I hope it wasn't _too_ dramatic? Idk I was just feeling it, I literally _only_ did this today and it is now midnight lol


	5. The Fame Monster pt.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio leaves for Italy and Oliver realises a hard truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh I wrote and edited and wrote and edited and I *argh*, but I figure it's time to give up and move on bc this story is supposed to be fun for me lol. 
> 
> Originally it was one long chapter but it would have been literally 9000+ words long so I've got one short one here and the next one or two will be Elio's experience back in Crema, hope y'all like :)
> 
> (Also I'm aware that the lyric in Speechless is, "all my wrecked up friends", but I much prefer the times when she occasionally sings it, ["Raise a glass to mend all the broken hearts of all my fucked up friends"](https://youtu.be/4r--8tj1sUQ?t=199); it feels much more honest to me.)

They’re comfortably silent in the taxi on the way to the airport.

Elio spends his time thinking about how things will probably – hopefully – be different now. He’s comforted by the prospect of spending time with his parents again after so long. The only reason he hasn’t been back since he left is that he knew they’d just look at him disapprovingly the whole time – and that would only have been worse if he’d still been with Reid when he went back… He’s sure they’ll be kinder now that he’s coming to them to slow down, rather than just to visit and keep going.

And with the way things have been going in LA… he can handle a few looks in exchange for being home.

Part of Oliver is thinking about how he needs to find a way to make sure Elio is telling him things like this before they get so bad… but he’s also wondering what Elio could really have said over email…

_‘Hi Oliver everything’s going really great right now – that said, my boyfriend and I had to physically fight until we had crazy rough sex to get here, and also we know we’re going to do it again’._

That was never going to happen. He doesn’t know the solution here.

Mostly though, he’s just content to know that the problem he was so worried about isn’t just _resolved_ to be fixed, it’s actually _being_ fixed with every passing moment. And now he’s going to get to watch Elio go home to the villa for the first time in years and years to get his head on straight. 

That thought makes him feel a little better.

Once they’re at the airport they take care of the ticket and decide to just wander around until it’s time. They pick a book for Elio to read on the plane together, they buy an (of course) expensive new pair of designer sunglasses when Elio realises he left his in Reid’s car, and then with time to spare they grab some coffee and wait. 

“You’ll be here flying back to _your_ family tomorrow,” Elio says with a sweet, tired smile over his coffee as they sit.

“Mm, I will,” Oliver agrees, sipping his own. 

Elio can’t help himself in the quiet calm of the night time airport.

“…You didn’t have much – well, anything – to say about Micol today.”

“That’s not true, I said she was still working at—”

“I had to specifically ask about her to get even that much out of you, Oliver.” 

Elio looks into Oliver’s eyes, trying to communicate the truth of his next words. 

“I know it’s obvious that I’ve been making some pretty questionable decisions lately but I can still listen if something is wrong. I’m not asking you this because I _want_ there to be problems, I’m asking because I care about you…” 

He tilts his head, drawing his brows sympathetically. 

“Are things okay with you guys?”

Oliver’s mind is brought back to listening to Elio book flights in the taxi. He’s really not seventeen anymore, is he? He knows he can talk to Elio about these things – could have talked to him about things like this even when he _was_ seventeen, but… Now just isn’t the time.

Oliver sighs. “Things are kind of in a… in a lull, right now. But it’s really nothing serious,” he assures. “It’ll be fine – truly, don’t worry about me. Worry about yourself right now.”

Elio nods. He’s unsatisfied with that answer, but he lets it go.

They talk easily enough about nothing in particular as they walk around aimlessly for a little longer when the coffees are finished, and find there’s a strange intimacy in being two wonderfully familiar people navigating such a cold, unfamiliar place as an airport. Sometimes they catch themselves just quietly smiling at being together again, nudging shoulders and trying not to think about how long they’ll be apart after this.

They find themselves at the gate as the announcement for first class passengers is made, and it finally occurs to Oliver to ask what he’s been wondering. 

“Before you go – which is the song that has the parts about me? I refuse to sit torturedly through a whole album trying to figure out what’s about me again,” he laughs.

Elio smiles back, but it’s a little sad. 

“It’s ‘Speechless’,” he says as though he’s admitting something. “The verses are about Reid, but the rest is about you. Reid and I had a massive fight, like always,” Elio rolls his eyes. “And I was kind of devastated thinking about how much I missed you the whole next day; especially comparing you with how he was acting. I showed it to Stef and she said it was too good not to release, so…” 

Oliver thinks for a moment about his conflicted feelings about Elio missing him before he narrows his eyes.

“’Bad Romance’ is about Reid, isn’t it?”

“What gave us away?” Elio says with an embarrassed huff of laughter. “It was like that at the beginning; kind of obsessive. It got serious really quickly… Maybe I was just blinded by how gorgeous he is, but I swear he used to be different.”

“I’m sure he did,” Oliver says gently, wanting Elio to know he’s not judging him for what’s happened before he attempts to leave things less heavy: "You really have a thing for blondes, huh?"

"Shut up," Elio says, with a tone caught between smirking and tearing up. 

And then they hug, long and hard, and Elio allows himself to feel protected in that moment. 

He feels like he’s been fending for himself in LA with Stefani so busy touring and working on Gaga projects, his relationship with Reid so volatile, his parents so frustrated with him, his relationship with everyone else so… surface level...

He’s missed this kind of honesty, and the true, easy intimacy he feels with Oliver even when he can’t let go completely…

“Elio…” he can’t help but breathe into Oliver’s chest as he recalls the safety he felt in his arms the first time he did it.

Oliver hesitates for only a moment before holding him tighter and softly replying, “Oliver…”

They stay embracing for a long moment. Elio is the first to pull back this time, the roles reversing as Oliver nods, letting the younger man know that it’s okay to go. Elio knows his eyes communicate his sincere, crushing gratitude at all Oliver’s been able to do for him in just one day better than words can… so he doesn’t say another word as he turns and leaves him standing there.

Once again, Elio Perlman is gone without a goodbye, and Oliver has to try to remind himself of all the reasons why that has to be okay as he walks away.

The next evening Oliver is once again sitting on his sofa with a glass of wine, ready to listen to what Elio has made for the world. This time however, Micol is in the kitchen beginning dinner and Max and Grace are in one of their rooms playing – he feels bad not helping with dinner but Micol insisted he had a long flight and told him to relax.

He’d been expecting more of a cold shoulder than a warm welcome with how off things seemed when he left, but she seems to be in a good mood and he’ll take what he can get.

He plays all of the other songs before the one about him. 

He can see Elio writing these songs with the way things were when he arrived – they’re much darker than the first ones, tonally and in their production. Adding ‘Monster’ to the album title certainly feels appropriate.

Knowing that the majority of the songs Elio wrote are about Reid makes Oliver feel both annoyed and relieved, because he was right – Reid _was_ (more than) kind of an asshole, but also, Oliver was there for _one afternoon_ and he managed to help Elio escape all of that…

Checking the songwriters of each track, it hits Oliver unexpectedly hard to realise that the only song Elio didn’t have a hand in is the one about being happy.

_I can’t believe he hid so much in his emails… He begged to just have a normal conversation the second I saw him in person. Maybe that’s why he didn’t say anything over email, it was an escape from everything truly affecting him in LA… Maybe we need to see each other more often so he doesn’t hide._

_But how am I going to see him more if he goes back to living in LA?_

The cocktail of love and guilt he feels with Elio creates a wound in his heart listening to the other songs, leaving it open and fresh for ‘Speechless’ to stick its unpitying fingers into when he finally presses play.

Immediately it feels more genuine than anything he heard on the first album… He could see Elio writing this for himself, alone with his piano and a drink after that big fight with Reid.

He’s glad Elio told him that only the verses were about Reid and the rest about him, though it breaks his heart to hear Elio write something like, _“I’ll never love again, oh boy you’ve left me speechless,”_ in a chorus about him.

Surely he’s exaggerating – he said he loved Reid. Or at least… he said he thought he loved him.

He wonders again how much Elio left out about his relationship, because the lyrics about ‘cigarette stained lies’ and ‘Johnnie Walker eyes’ and slurring… Every word tugs at Oliver’s heart. He wishes desperately that he could have been near Elio sooner to discover his unhappiness and ‘all his fucked up friends’ before it got to the point where he knew he needed to run away to Italy _that very night_ or he’d stay stuck in the cycle for who knew how long.

But then again… Oliver is sure that if he had been around to see everything going wrong, eventually he _would_ have given it all up for him, just like the song asks… And as much as he wishes he could, he can never let himself do that, and he can never tell Elio that he would.

He can’t let Elio go, but he can’t abandon his family, he just _can’t_. He won't. Even if he could bring himself to break Micol’s heart and file for divorce, he knows she would get custody and then everything would fall apart – _Oliver_ would fall apart, utterly. He’s not sure even Elio could put him back together if he lost Max and Gracie.

 _Elio_ will _love again though, right? He has to. He’s too wonderful to be alone because I chose wrong and can’t dig myself back out without hurting everyone I care about._

Elio must know that Oliver can’t do it, and that it kills him, because the last lyric has him sitting on the edge of the sofa with his hands clasped in front of him and his head bowed – he’s just trying to hold it together as it washes over him in a perfect summary of the endless struggle he’s made Elio’s life, and his own. 

_“Some men may follow me, but you choose death and company… why you so speechless?”_

Oliver takes a deep breath as the room goes silent and his whole world comes down to one point of thought:

_…Did I make a mistake?_

_Fuck, I did. I made a mistake._

_Something like that was never going to just_ go away, _I fucked up, I fucked it all up…_

People say they’re devastated and it doesn’t really mean anything. But Oliver feels like he’s been left standing in the devastation of all of the carefully constructed reasoning he’s built around himself to keep from realising his regret blowing down over the course of one fucking song.

_I made a mistake, I can’t un-realise that, how am I supposed to just keep going, I can’t undo this—_

“Did your friend write that song?” Micol asks from the side, wiping her hands on a towel in the kitchen archway.

Oliver startles, feeling like he’s been caught naked – these emotions are so private and traitorous, he shouldn’t be having them in the living room of his _family’s home._

“No, uh,” he says – she can’t know Elio wrote it. “His friend Stefani – Lady Gaga – wrote it.”

Micol nods, saying dismissively, “Oh, good – seems sad. Dinner’s ready.”

Oliver takes a moment before he stands – mechanical, unseeing – and makes his way to the table. He feels like he was ripped out of his thoughts too early, the full brunt of his realisation stunted, aborted. It feels like everything in his brain is misfiring and he can’t show it. 

No no no, his defences were down, it was stupid. He loves his kids – look at them, they’re amazing, they are, he doesn’t regret them, it’s just…

_Fuck._

He gets through dinner on autopilot, barely tasting the food and starting whenever someone says his name.

“You really are jetlagged,” Micol says amusedly the third time it happens. Oliver just huffs a humourless laugh and says that yes, he is. 

“I think Daddy will probably be in bed early like you two tonight,” Micol smiles down at the children as they giggle at their father’s ‘sleepiness’.

Oliver plays along as best he can, getting the children into their pyjamas, making sure they brush their teeth, putting them to bed while Micol takes care of the leftovers and the dishes.

Spending the time with his children does help solidify that no matter what choices he regrets from before he was married he can’t regret them, but he honestly can’t even remember what they ate for dinner in his preoccupation as he gets changed and sits on the edge of the bed, still lost in his warring mind.

 _Admitting it doesn’t change anything; I_ know _I have to keep living like this for them, but… how am I ever going to put those walls back up?_

He startles again when Micol enters and she frowns, “You really are off today, are you feeling okay?”

She places a hand on his forehead to feel his temperature and Oliver has to fight to keep the guilt off of his face at her care. He didn’t cheat with his body but the admission of regret in the face of her kindness feels like cheating with his mind. He feels like a traitor. He shouldn’t be able to admit even to himself that he’d rather be somewhere else – _with_ someone else.

“I’m not sick,” he insists, smiling a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and standing to get under the covers. “I’m just tired,” he lies.

“Hmm, you two got up to a lot then?” she asks suggestively, taking her side of the bed.

Oliver just frowns at her wording and tone.

“Well you’re hungover, right?” she asks after a moment, confused.

“Oh… yeah,” he says as he turns over, turning out the light. “Yeah we had a big night, I’m beat.”

It’s so much easier to just lie than to try to explain everything that’s happened in the last thirty-six hours, but… how much more lying is he going to have to do now that the illusion is so suddenly, utterly shattered? 

Especially when she wants to do something like place a hand on his chest and say, “…Are you sure you’re too tired to do anything more interesting tonight?”, her tone playful and teasing.

“Yeah,” Oliver immediately replies through a sigh as he turns onto his side, hoping the act is convincing enough. “I really need to catch up on some sleep, sorry.”

He’s just too conflicted, he doesn’t even think he could get hard right now. 

What if he never can again without believing the lies? He loves her and he loves Elio and both loves feel like a betrayal.

Micol’s disappointment is palpable as she turns off her light and draws the covers, she knows. 

She’s known things were getting a little too monotonous for both of them for a long time, but… while Oliver was away she resolved to try to breathe some life back to their relationship – they’re only in their early thirties for god’s sake, how is this going to last if they’re already bored, and tiring of each other? 

Oliver’s rejection feels like a bad omen to her. He’s said he’s too tired before, but… 

_…Who knows what happens when you get drunk with your rich friend in LA… what if he did something while he was away?,_ a paranoid part of her mind that rarely stirs asks.

She dismisses the thought as soon as she has it; she knows Oliver would be wrecked by guilt if he ever did something – there’s no way he wouldn’t have told her immediately. He’d probably call her crying right after if he was drunk when he did it because he’s a good man who cares about his family…

But _something_ needs to change, she doesn’t want to end up in one of those loveless marriages where they only stay together for the kids, she wants to _live_ … Oliver cares about his family and he respects her as his wife… but she wants him to _love her._

She’s knows she’s not going to anything crazy anytime soon, but… she needs to do what’s best for her family. 

_Maybe he really is tired and tomorrow will be better. I’ll make pancakes, start the day off better…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked ☺️ I am feeling very frustrated with it rn so please give me the gift of comments for strength :')) (any comment at all truly; I find it really hard to know what to say even when I like a story a lot, but a little goes a long way for me ♥️♥️)
> 
> Fun times coming up after the next chapter, sorry for the suffering here and the suffering yet to come :')


	6. The Fame Monster pt.3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio returns home and goes out for the night...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really didn't like this chapter when I was writing it initially, but reading it a few days later it's grown on me a lot.
> 
> We finally get some Gaga in this one :D - she feels to me like someone who would call Elio 'bub' but my friend disagrees, so I suppose if you don't like it then sorry bout it lol
> 
> (Marzia is bitter here and Elio's parents aren't especially supportive at this point in this fic, hope y'all enjoy)

Elio initially intended to inform his parents that he was coming to the villa before he got on the plane but it just never happened and by the time he landed he figured it might as well be a surprise.

…But the first thing he notices upon arrival is the lack of his parents’ car. It didn’t occur to him that they might not be at the villa for another day or two this time of year. It’s a bit late for them but not entirely unusual.

Or maybe it is unusual… he doesn’t know what’s usual for them anymore.

Elio sighs, his escape seemingly already off on the wrong foot. 

He pays the driver and gives him a decent tip, forgetting until he sees the look of grateful surprise on his face that tipping isn’t expected in Italy. It doesn’t bode well for this being a return to familiarity.

With a sigh Elio knocks on the door, met after a few moments with the at first put-upon and then shocked face of Mafalda, who must be here preparing the house. She covers her mouth with her hands before seeming to remember that she needs to open the door in order to give him a hug.

 _“Elio!_ Elio, Elio, Elio! _Sei tu, mio Dio!”_ she cries, clutching him so tight in her wiry arms he thinks his eyes might pop out. She lets out a string of Italian pet names, placing her hands on his cheeks to get a good look before exclaiming in joy and hugging him again.

Elio laughs a little at her open, emotional way. He’s missed this without missing it, he thinks. He can’t remember the last person who hugged him in this doting, fussing, motherly way.

He does need to breathe though, informing Mafalda of this with a wheeze. Seeming to come to her senses, she pulls back and gets a good look at him.

“What are you wearing?” she says in Italian with a frown. 

She’s never seen him in what she’d probably consider fancy designer American clothes. 

“Nevermind,” she dismisses. “You’re just as skinny as when you left, what have you been eating over there? Where is the rest of you? No, don’t tell me, you’ll make me worry. Just get settled in upstairs and I’ll make something proper to eat for when you come down.”

And with that she’s off down the hall towards the kitchen. 

Elio just stands there dazed for a moment. He’s home. Seemingly nothing’s really changed here. 

He’s not entirely sure what he’s feeling. 

The last time he was here his parents were scowling at him as he got into the taxi. The last time he was here he was leaving with the only money he had to crash Oliver’s wedding. And now…

He doesn’t know how to reconcile who he’s been with who he is. 

Mafalda’s clucking is warming and definitely _of_ home, but he doesn’t know if he feels _at_ home here anymore. It feels so far from the real world… in some ways just as far as his house and all those stupid pretentious clubs in LA. 

He didn’t know anything about the culture or the music that’s come to define the course of his life when he was last here. He’d never been broke, never met Stefani, never written a song with vocals, even…

“What are you still doing standing in the hall?” Mafalda calls from the kitchen, and Elio finally shakes himself out of his staring bewilderment, heading upstairs to drop his things in his room to avoid further prodding.

He doesn’t unpack per se, not really – not like he intends to stay. He unpacks like he does in hotel rooms, laying out the essentials but leaving most of it in his suitcase until he needs it. 

When he’s done he sits and watches the sun set through the window of what used to be his – and then Oliver’s – room, waiting for Mafalda to ring the bell or call out. 

His mind is blank, as though time is passing much faster than usual but it doesn’t affect him, as though he just observes the world rather than participating in it.

He’s suddenly on the other side of the world, so far from Oliver, so far from Stef, so far from everything that felt so terribly real to him as he left his home arguing with a fresh bruise yesterday morning… He’s not sure if this feeling is just the result of an awkward adjustment or if he’s going down the wrong path entirely here.

But then Mafalda rings that old bell and suddenly he’s jolted from his thoughts again, standing and making his way downstairs to the outside dining table where wine and candles await, along with what looks to be a comfort-food pasta dish.

It’s been a long time since he’s had one of Mafalda’s dinners, made with love. 

Once Mafalda runs out of obvious questions about the last seven years of his life Elio finds he has to start downing his wine a little faster to carry the conversation without feeling supremely awkward. He can tell Mafalda is studying him for signs of him being older or Americanised, and he can tell that she finds them – in the way he speaks, the way he holds his cutlery, the way he avoids talking about certain topics…

He knows he talks a lot slower than his rapid bursts of speech at the dinner table so long ago. No one used to listen to the baby of the family, but he’s used to people being willing to listen to him now and Mafalda can definitely hear the difference. He’s not _arrogant_ , just less rushed than perhaps he was. 

He leaves out most of why he left LA, claiming he just wanted to visit home, and thankfully Mafalda lets him leave it at that. 

She says she’s listened to all of his songs but that her English isn’t good enough to understand what Stef is singing – thank god. She says unapologetically that she doesn’t like the music itself at all regardless of the lyrics and it’s about the least surprising thing Elio has ever heard. He’s not offended in the slightest… in a way it’s nice to know that she isn’t going to lie to him about it, even if he isn’t entirely sure how to talk to her as he used to anymore.

Sitting there as Mafalda clears their plates Elio frowns. In the moment he realises that he doesn’t really feel any different than when he left LA. If anything he feels more out of place, and perhaps less able to think clearly. 

He felt like everything was washed away talking to Oliver before he got on the plane, but now… 

He can feel a pessimistic fog descending so he stands, resolving to go out and try to outrun it. It’s a good distraction at least and he hasn’t been to Le Danzing in so long, he wants to know what’s changed… it’s cold, but not so cold people won’t try to have a good time in such a sleepy area.

He was right – no matter the temperature, unless there’s a blizzard then people will be at Le Danzing on the weekend. At first he’s relieved, because if there’s one thing that’s familiar by now, it’s a crowd of warm, dancing bodies. Most of the music is even in English like back ho—

No, this is supposed to be ‘back home’. 

Elio recognises some of the kids he used to see around who were too young to go out when he was last here. Six years since he left and they’re all adults, or teenagers having the same fledgling experiences he was having that summer. They all certainly seem to recognise him. 

He’s probably only fuelling the rumours they’ve likely heard about _Elio_. His parents have no doubt spread news of his sordid journey from cultured Italian angel child to soulless Los Angeles materialist over the years. He stares right back when people stare at him, refusing to be made to feel uncomfortable in his own home.

…Though truthfully he knows it’s just a front he’s putting up; he is uncomfortable no matter how he pretends not to be.

It hits him strangely hard, when he decides to start appreciatively eyeing up a man he wouldn’t mind taking home for the night and gets a look of disgust, instead of the reciprocation or dismissive rejection he’s used to. He hasn’t been in a place as conservative as Crema since… well, since he left Crema. He doesn’t quite know what he’s feeling as he frowns and turns away.

Is it… shame? 

No. _Fuck_ shame, he’ll _never_ feel shame about this – he hasn’t, since that strange morning after he first had sex with Oliver, but he does feel oddly like… 

_Is it that it feels regressive to be here? Like going back to before I knew about everything that means anything to me now? The last time I was here no one was out at all, let alone proud, and it looks like that’s still the case… I’m so far ahead of these people, how can this be home? How can this place can help me move forward?_

_Maybe I should just go back home._

_…But where the fuck_ is _home if not here?_

Elio feels like he’s about to go insane with the no-win spiral his thoughts are stuck in when he’s interrupted by the strangest sight. He knows he stands out here with his sleek clothes and his brand new shoes, but Marzia’s curly mane would stand out to him anywhere. She seems to see him at the same moment he sees her. 

“…Elio?” she calls out with a disbelieving look. 

“Marzia!” he replies, rushing over to give her a hug. 

He hasn’t spoken to her once in the whole six years he’s been gone. It’s really his own fault; Marzia could have asked his parents for his new number it’s true, but he had hers all along… Though honestly he didn’t have change to spare to call for a long, long time.

He did move on easily with Stef, but there were reasons he let their friendship fade.

She seems to realise that he should have called at the same moment he does, and very suddenly it moves from exciting to awkward. It’s not a reunion between two good friends, it’s the reunion of two people who used to know one another well but know nothing about each other at all at this point.

Marzia clears her throat. 

“You um. You look well,” she says through her sudden discomfort, ever polite in such situations. It’s strange to Elio to be on the other side of her politeness, but… it would feel even more strange for her to play at still being true friends.

“Thanks,” he replies awkwardly. “You too.”

It’s true, she does look good – fully-fledged adulthood suits her. Something subtle but fundamental has changed in her and Elio isn’t sure what it is. Maybe it’s just an accumulation of those small adjustments that change everyone as they transform slowly from adolescent to adult. 

He’s certain he’s changed more.

He’s not sure what to say next to this new, indefinably different Marzia – what are the expectations, the social graces of such a situation?

Marzia is more prepared to deal, it seems.

“I heard that you left New York for LA, your parents mentioned it over dinner a few times,” she finally says when the silence becomes unbearable. “People were talking about it.”

“Yeah I did, uh… They were?” 

Elio is certain he has no idea how to carry a conversation with a real person anymore. 

“Yes, they said you’d come into some money, and it seems they were right – are those designer?” she asks, pointing to the new sunglasses still hanging from his shirt, as well as his shoes.

Elio looks down, somehow even more uncomfortable at being observed with such a keen eye. Well spotted; she’s right. His whole outfit is designer in fact – not by active choice, those are just the stores he happens to walk by where he lives and the clothes that allow him to fit in in LA.

“They uh… yeah, they are, actually.”

He knows his discomfort is clear – it’s obvious he doesn’t belong here for a multitude of reasons, and honestly his open bisexuality feels like one of the smaller ones right now.

Just when it feels like Elio might actually crumple and fall into dust in hopelessness at the situation a man comes by to pass Marzia a drink and drape an arm around her shoulder.

“Who’s this, babe?” he says pointedly – performatively, as though telling Elio to back off. 

_…That ship has long since sailed._

“This is Elio, my old friend from the summers who went to America,” she says, not elaborating. He would have said they were something a little more important than just casual summer friends but he can’t blame her leaving it at that in front of a man who seems to be her jealous boyfriend – or judging by the sparkling ring on her left hand, perhaps her fiancé. 

Elio extends his hand.

“Federico,” the man says as he shakes it, rather predictably a little too hard. Elio wants to roll his eyes but he doesn’t want to upset anyone – it’s not like living in LA has made him _rude._

“Are you two…?” Elio trails off, gesturing to Marzia’s glittering ring finger.

“Oh,” she exclaims delightedly, distracted from her apprehension and only too happy to show Elio in the moment. “Yes, he asked last month.”

“Congratulations!” Elio says genuinely. He’s truly happy for them and why wouldn’t he be? Federico seems to think there’s a reason, but Elio just locks onto Marzia, inspecting the ring and fawning over it the way she seems to want him to judging by the excited smile on her face – at least for now she seems to have forgotten their unfinished business.

Elio can feel eyes on him as he holds her hand up to the light – he suspects that around these parts inspecting a friend’s engagement ring in this manner is really only something a woman or a – gasp – _gay_ man would do. He sighs internally and drops the hand, telling her that it’s beautiful. It’s not to his taste but it must have cost a pretty penny.

Wrapped up in her still-fresh delight at her engagement Marzia invites him to join her group of friends at their table, and he does because he can’t think of what else to do here – he can’t exactly decline just to go stand in a corner, and there aren’t enough people here to dance anonymously like he’s used to. 

It seems like his best option going in, but it’s clear that these people are a close-knit group and there’s not much room in their conversation for him to jump in. Marzia doesn’t even sit next to him but rather on the opposite side of the circular table, leaving him sat next to someone he’s never met, with the guy who gave him that dirty look earlier not three seats away. 

After a while Elio finds he doesn’t really even want to join in their conversation, all of his hope for the evening dissolving as he slumps in his seat swallowing drink after drink until he’s finally buzzed enough to forget to be bothered by it. For a while at least.

If they’re all so close he’ll give them their space to talk, whatever. 

As Marzia swallows several of her own drinks she seems to slip out of her polite autopilot mode and realise that she’s actually angry with Elio for his neglect, slowly becoming drunk enough to let it show.

It doesn’t feel especially good to watch his one connection to a group of strangers turn more against him with each passing minute – particularly when the whole table seems to take a chilly turn after he gets up for another drink, like someone told them _‘that’s the Perlman kid, yeah the one who left for America and got stupid rich and completely abandoned everyone ‘til now’._

He tries to think about other things but he knows they’re probably looking on him slumping there in pity thinking, _Poor Hollywood waster, he’s got all that money and nothing else. Got those fancy properties but no real friends. Nothing to do here but brood and drink… You don’t come back from LA unless you’re all fucked up from LA._

 _…And are they wrong?,_ he thinks to himself, hanging his head a little more and giving his new drink a long sip.

_I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t be here…_

He’s stuck in his head, unable to escape his self-loathing thoughts, when he’s rescued by none other than himself. 

Well, by Stef singing a song he wrote for her – ‘Bad Romance’. It is about Reid but honestly at this point Elio can easily separate it from him. He’s heard it enough times that it’s just another song he’s written.

He’s truly comforted by Stef’s voice for a moment, comforted by their reach all around the world through speakers just like those thumping around him… 

That is until Marzia groans, “Fuck, I hate this song. I’ve heard it way too many times already and it’s only been a month.”

Elio frowns, hurt, his bubble burst.

Do people not like even _this_ part of him he has to offer anymore?

Usually he just breezes past comments like that but with the decision to leave LA it feels like everything is in question… He feels adrift. He feels vulnerable to words like that.

_Oliver doesn’t want me, my parents don’t approve of my entire life, Reid could seemingly only stand me for three fucking days at a time, none of my friends in LA actually care about me, none of my friends here are even my friends anymore… if I don’t have music to give the world then what the fuck do I have?_

His thoughts are spiralling once again and this time not even Stefani’s familiar voice can save him, until one of the kinder faces at the table speaks.

“I don’t know, I’m a fan. I loved the video too, it was crazy. Have you seen it?”

…And even just those few words are enough to bring Elio back from the brink of crisis. 

Marzia’s was just one comment from one person… Marzia isn’t even the kind of person they’re hoping to reach, in the end… the single is selling so well, he can’t let just one comment bring him down because he’s in the fucking dumps. 

He’s stronger than this, he swears. Or… he was, for a little while, he thinks as his thoughts are interrupted

“So what did you actually _do_ to earn all of your money?” Marzia finally asks, clearly affected by her fifth cocktail of the night as she allows a little veiled bitterness into her tone.

_She doesn’t like that I have money? Is that the real problem?_

“I uh,” Elio begins, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably, feeling both that he has to prove that he left to be successful and that he can’t fall into immodesty.

“I write songs,” he says. “I… I actually wrote _this_ song,” he explains with his hands in his lap, feeling incredibly awkward.

Marzia raises an eyebrow in disbelief at first, pointing to the speakers as if to say, _‘This song? You’re sure?'_

Elio just nods, feeling like he’s somehow made the situation far worse with his admission.

The whole atmosphere at the table seems to shift, but Elio’s a little too drunk to gauge exactly how. Everyone seems much more aware of their actions after that… Did it somehow get colder?

“So _you’ve_ met Lady Gaga?” Marzia asks, doubt in her voice as she cuts through Elio’s thoughts.

“We’re actually…” _Do I say best friends?_ “Pretty good friends. I met Stef in New York before she was—uh, well-known.”

He’s not going to say the word fucking famous.

“How many of her other songs did you write?” the kind person who spoke earlier asks with wide-eyed curiosity.

“Probably about… three quarters of them, I wrote with her, or by myself,” Elio says with a shrug, trying to downplay it all. 

Judging by Marzia’s unimpressed look the shrug came across less as modest and more as bragging, at least to her. 

How can he win? How did he ever survive here before? Even back in the summers some people in Crema thought he was kind of snobbish for his loner attitude… It feels like that on steroids to him now.

“Wow,” Marzia says, clearly unmoved and annoyed and ready to move on.

Elio is at this point wildly uncomfortable even through the drunken buzz which is rapidly sliding back into tipsiness, so he excuses himself to get another drink before he can make things somehow more difficult.

Half an hour later despite his extra drink nothing is better. The group all still seem up to go on into the night but Elio is fucking spent, exhausted from trying to walk an impossibly thin line. It’s finally time for him to go.

He wants to leave on the best possible terms – bad as it seems they will be regardless – so he offers to cover the tab for the whole group, standing up as he declares his intentions.

Immediately Marzia jumps on it.

“You don’t have to pay for us Elio,” she says, a challenge in her voice. “We may not be friends to the stars but we can cover our own drinks.”

Elio freezes – in LA he showed polite appreciation for his peers by buying them shit. 

You pay for the meal you just had or you get them a drink, and they know that at the very least you mean to put on a polite front… Is it, for some reason he can’t remember, not acceptable to do that here? 

“I—I know you can,” he insists, hoping his genuineness comes across in his uncertainty and his still-frozen body. “I just… I wanted to. To say thank you for having me tonight.”

He knows immediately after that the statement betrays how far away he feels from these people, like an exchange student staying with a foreign family. 

_Fuck._

Marzia just gestures for him to go dismissively, so Elio takes the out and heads to the bar feeling ridiculously like a dog with its tail between its legs. Somehow this last blow just hits differently than all the others. He feels suddenly weaker – he can’t ignore the feeling of rejection.

Maybe his parents’ grumblings really have gotten around and, truly, everyone just believes he thinks he’s some big LA hotshot who can buy their respect if he just throws enough money at them…

He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so self-conscious in his life as when he hands over his shiny black credit card to pick up the group’s tab – which he now realises _is_ pretty large for one person on a normal income to cover, at several hundred dollars. He can’t help but feel he should never have left LA, miserable as he was there. 

At least there he knew if he threw his money around people would pretend to like him in hopes he’d shower some of it on them. He never believed them and they knew he knew their true intentions, but it was easy to just skate through life like that.

Unable to shake his feelings of shame and rejection Elio does what he’s always done in moments of discomfort since moving to LA, and orders shots, paying for them before he leaves the bar. 

The bartender clearly thinks they’re nightcaps for people at the table and hands them over on a tray with no problem, giving Elio a wide eyed look as she watches him down them all – one, two, three – before he stalks off. 

_Fuck these people,_ he finally thinks bitterly as he heads to the bathroom. _I didn’t come here to be made to feel like shit and I don’t deserve it. No one but me is going to make me feel like shit about my life right now._

After relieving himself and washing his hands Elio stares at himself in the empty bathroom’s solitary mirror, studying his face and noting how different it must be to when he left. He knows his cheeks are more carved, his jaw sharper from months of not being able to afford to eat properly and then just the passage of time, but… he thinks his eyes are the biggest difference. He can’t pinpoint it, but there’s something to the vulnerability shifting into hardness as his mind ticks, that he’s certain wasn’t there before. 

He’s not who he was at all.

By the time he emerges the conversation at the table is already far more lively than it was the whole time he was sitting there and he knows why. It pisses him off and with the extra three drinks now circulating his veins he’s got some thoughts to share about it.

 _What is this cliquey shit, have these people never left their own fucking bubbles? Are we in some fucking bible-belt hometown right now? …Fuck I miss New York,_ he thinks. _I was poor as shit but so was everyone else, and it made you act like a fucking adult even when you were acting like a kid... It made you kinder._

Even with all of that rage thrumming in him Elio still asks Marzia to come aside so he can talk to her privately, because he knows this isn’t LA and there will be more than just a day’s talk if the Perlman kid makes a scene on day one.

“Anything you have to say, you can just say it now,” she says, finally drunk enough to be openly hostile. “Or you could have called me to tell me at any point in the last seven years.”

He knows it’s dramatic and histrionic but fuck it, that’s how he’s feeling with the events in his life recently, so he takes a deep breath to say a few things before he leaves – it’s not like Marzia has a leg to stand on with being childish tonight.

He mostly manages to speak without slurring.

“You know Marzia… I know you’re bothered that I offered to pay and I’m sorry if it came across as— as trying to show off, or trying to brag or something, but I just wanted to do something nice because I felt like I was intruding on you guys this whole fucking night because you clearly didn’t want me here. And I’m sorry for that too, but you invited me so fuck me for assuming I was welcome.”

Elio’s tone moved from apologetic to accusatory and sarcastic as he spoke, but when he continues it all drops, sincerity taking over.

“But I really am sorry that I never called after I left. I was dealing with my own shit and I literally couldn’t spare the fucking change to call anyone when I got to New York. And then by the time I could… my whole life was different, and yours probably was too and then it was just too late to say anything. I’m sorry but I can’t take it back. I never meant to hurt you, it just happened.” 

The last part is said so genuinely that Marzia looks down, seemingly a little ashamed of the way she’s acted in assuming rather than asking. He knows she didn’t know those things before, but he can’t deny it’s still a little bit satisfying to finally not be the one feeling like shit. 

“And if you believe I think I’m better than anyone because I have some money now you’re wrong. You sit there with your fiancé and I can’t help but think you’re better than me because you seem happy together while the reason I’m in Crema is because my boyfriend and I couldn’t stop fucking hitting each other every other week,” he says bitterly, pointing to the still-fresh bruise on his cheek which no one has asked about in the low lighting. 

Not waiting to see her reaction to his oversharing Elio immediately turns to look directly at the friend of hers who gave him that disgusted look earlier in the night, continuing. 

“And I guess I’m fucking sorry for showing interest earlier but yes, I had a _boyfriend_ in LA and I left for America for a _man_ , because I like _cock,_ in my _ass._ And that part I’m not sorry about. Grow the fuck up.”

And then he books it, not waiting to see anyone’s reaction. He doesn’t want to see if they’re cowed and he especially doesn’t want to see if they’re laughing. He doesn’t need their reactions… He knows it was dramatic, but it felt good in the moment.

As he stalks off he’s thinking about how he doesn’t think he’s better than anyone because of his money; he thinks he’s better than _assholes_ because he _is_. Money’s got nothing to do with it.

Fuck them for assuming his head is up his ass, he doesn’t need them.

_I left, I pursued my passion and I helped change the world in one way or another. And by happenstance I made so much money doing it that it literally just accumulates if I don’t find ways to spend it… Sorry ‘bout it._

Elio is drunkenly laughing at his own thoughts on the stumbling walk home so that he doesn’t drunkenly cry, but eventually the bravado fails and the tears win out. He’s not even crying about the night, really. He’s just crying about his life and how meaningless it all seems to feel now that he’s not wrapped up in it.

He stops on the side of the road to crouch and cry for a moment – quietly, but only because he’s holding it all in as best he can. He’s pretty sure he’s only crying because he’s drunk… he’s been here before.

 _Choking real hard on a sob is almost as good as the actual thing,_ he thinks. _It’s sort of like fucking Reid real hard after hitting him is, compared to Oliver just running his fingers down my spine – not what I need but the same intensity at least._

He shakes his head at his thoughts.

_God, this is not helpful, this is the opposite of what I came here to think about. I need to talk to someone who makes me feel like a real person worth talking to, instead of like a stranger who needs to explain himself in what’s supposed to be his home._

_Maybe when my parents get here it’ll change. Only a few more hours and they’ll be at the door… shit, what time is it?_

_It’s only one… At least that means Stef will be awake in LA…_

_Come on Elio, get up. You’ve been in worse situations than this,_ a part of him insists.

And it’s true, he has been in harder situations financially, and professionally, and even personally, but… he doesn’t think he’s ever felt this lost. Except maybe the day of Oliver’s wedding, before he met Stef… 

If he can’t enjoy being in LA and he can’t enjoy being in Crema… where does that leave him?

_Stop thinking about that, you’re not going to solve it stumbling drunk down the road, just get home._

Picking himself up from the ground Elio wipes his tears roughly and continues determinedly onwards until his house is finally in view. He finally makes it inside and his first thought is of where the nice bourbons are at. He knows whatever he drinks of them won’t be missed – his parents were never keen on bourbon but he developed a taste for it in New York. 

Yet another thing dividing him from everything here.

Eventually he settles by the phone with his bottle and laughs to himself remembering sitting here listening to Oliver tell him he was getting married and thinking that he would never see him again. He almost cries at that too but he wants to make his call so he just moves on before he can.

Miraculously he remembers Stef’s number without having to check, and even more miraculously she picks up a number she doesn’t recognise.

“Hello?” she says, sounding doubtful in a _‘how did you get this number’_ sort of way.

“Stef,” he says through his stifled laughter at her suspicious tone. “It’s me, it’s Elio.”

“Oh, it’s you,” she says, sounding surprised. “What time is it there?”

“It’s like…” Elio leans over to check the clock in the hall. “One-thirty.”

“In the morning? What are you doing awa—” A pause. “Oh, you’re drunk.”

Elio can’t tell if she sounds disapproving or amused. Probably a bit of both?

“Don’t be mad at me,” he whines, trying to not sound too intoxicated. “It’s not because Reid and I fought this time.”

“I never would have guessed, what with him being in LA and you in Italy and all,” she says, sarcastic but not unkind. “But what are you doing drunk bub? You’re supposed to be escaping and recharging with your parents,” she admonishes lightly.

“They weren’t here when I arrived,” Elio pouts. “So I decided to go to Le Danzing after a very awkward dinner with Mafalda to see if anything had changed.”

“What the fuck is Le Danzing?”

“It’s the shitty club here,” Elio says without remorse. He’s not going to defend it, fuck that place and fuck the people in it. He doesn’t much care for nuance just now. “Club is a strong word for it… It’s where Oliver and Chiara made me jealous that one time.”

“Oh, _that_ club… well how did that go? Did some handsome guy talk you up and get you drunk?” she teases, hoping to lighten his mood.

Elio slumps and he knows Stef can hear it in his voice even if she can’t see it.

“No…” he grumbles. “It was fucking shithouse.”

“Aw, why?” Stef asks, and he can tell she’s babying him a little, knowing he’s probably feeling pretty weak right now. He both loathes and deeply appreciates it. 

“I don’t know, I just… “ Elio sighs. “Marzia was there and she invited me to sit with her friends but… I don’t know, everything was just weird and bad. And then when I left I covered the group’s tab to be nice and she made it clear that she thought that it was… It doesn’t matter. I kind of told everyone to go fuck themselves and walked home.”

Elio leaves out the crying – he doesn’t want to talk about that. It’s far from his mind now in his intoxication. 

“…You told them to go fuck themselves?”

“Well, not in so many words, but… I just— I don’t know if I’m supposed to be here.”

He doesn’t feel like he has the tools to accurately communicate the ins and outs of why, so he just leaves it at that.

“You’ve been there for less than twelve hours hon, I think it might be a bit early to throw in the towel,” Stefani says and Elio can hear her raised eyebrow.

“I know,” he mumbles, looking down. “I just…” he trails off before deciding to let it drop. “…Maybe seeing my parents will make it better?”

“Maybe,” Stef agrees, her tone sympathetic. 

Then there’s someone speaking in the background and the sound of Stef’s hand covering the receiver for a moment.

“Sorry Elly, I have to go,” she says apologetically after a few moments. “I think you should probably just go to bed though bubs. Nothing is going to change before morning.”

“Okay,” Elio replies miserably, though he doesn’t want to sleep just yet. “I love you,” he says, reaching out desperately for a moment of real connection in this country, town, house that suddenly feels so foreign.

“And I love you too. So much,” Stef says genuinely, knowing that he’s been going through it for a while now and definitely needs to hear it. “I love you, just get some sleep – I’ll call you tomorrow.”

And then she’s gone. 

Elio feels like he should have appreciated the contact more while he could, because he feels suddenly very alone sitting in the empty hallway. He wants to call Oliver and he knows he’ll be awake, but his rational mind is still online enough to know that a drunk call from him right now will only serve to make Oliver worry. 

He’s still empty without Stefani’s familiar voice filling his head… he’s cold.

 _Another sip will help that,_ he thinks, lifting the bottle to his lips and standing. _Maybe tonight was a baptism of fire and tomorrow I’ll feel all pure and ready to begin again?_

_Probably not, but… whatever._

After a few moments he’s mindlessly drunk enough to decide not feel much about it – this isn’t like all the times he just reflexively got drunk to deal with arguing with Reid, but the effect on his emotions is much the same.

Elio makes his way over to the piano, not quite ready to end his night yet. Sitting down with his bottle he decides to write something – it’s been a while. He’s fond of it, actually, as it develops. It’s sad certainly, and nothing he’d give to the Gaga project. He finds himself feeling tearful towards the end, hunching over and pinching the bridge of his nose to hold it together. He needs to get down a recording of it before he allows himself to break.

Unbeknownst to Elio, Mafalda has been awoken by the sound of the piano. She came down to listen to her dear Elio play for the first time in so long, but quickly realised that he was writing, not playing. She stands in the archway between the room with the piano and the hallway but Elio doesn’t see her with the state he’s in.

He presses a finger to his phone and begins a playthrough of the song. Mafalda’s English isn’t good enough to understand it all – just like with the Lady Gaga music – but she catches sad pieces here and there. It’s certainly nothing like what Elio and his friend have released.

She hears something about looking for ‘some sense of home’ and being ‘all alone’, and frowns. He told her at dinner that he was just visiting because it was long overdue, and at the time she couldn’t tell if it was because it was, or if it was to do with the many subtle ways in which he seemed to have changed - she cannot read him anymore.

Mafalda thinks about how much the boy she knew has changed as she watches him sing and play – though he’s truly not a boy anymore, but a man now. 

His smile is not the same smile when he gives it; it’s sadder. His movements are careful because he feels out of place here, not because he’s a precocious teenager. He’s drunk tonight, and not just dinner-tipsy like she’s seen him before… 

The slump of his shoulders is not that of the teenager whose hand gets a sting when he reaches out from his home, it is the slump of someone truly adrift. 

She fears dear Elio is lost.

Quietly making her way back up the stairs as Elio finishes and takes a final sip from the bottle before bed, Mafalda prays that Annella and Samuel’s return tomorrow morning will help him, and Elio prays the same thing though he no longer believes.

When Elio feels a wave of sleepiness coming on he doesn’t fight it, dragging his feet across the floor and up the stairs to his old room. He falls asleep to the sound of the long, comforting voice memos he has of his and Stef’s writing sessions, but he dreams of Reid's flying hand and Oliver's worried eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a beggar and comments of all kinds are my coins, I buy my dinner with them :'))
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it - next chapter Elio has a realisation and makes his first good life decision in a long time (besides leaving Reid) ♥️
> 
> ALSO I almost forgot, the song Elio writes is [Secret Pastures](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pNS_evM8RAk) by The Trouble with Templeton


	7. The Fame Monster pt.4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio's relationship with his parents travels the intially rocky road to repair, and then Elio makes a good decision...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This one took a bit of work not to hate, but I think I got there :')))
> 
> I know Annella and Sami are kinda OOC in this story, sorry I had to do it ♥️

Elio wakes up to the sound of his parents’ car door slamming, blinking into the sunlight with a blinding headache and only half a memory of anything after those three shots. 

He’s pretty sure he’s still a bit drunk – it’s only seven AM and he drank a lot at dinner, at Le Danzing, _and_ when he got back. Immediately he’s up and stumbling about trying to remember where he left his sunglasses; he’s going to need them today. He didn’t even bother to change out of his clothes before bed and he doesn’t bother to do it now, ruling sustenance more important than hygiene in bringing him back to life in the moment.

He thinks food will help as he wanders downstairs having successfully found his blissfully dark sunglasses, but the smell of Mafalda’s cooking turns his stomach as soon as it hits him on the breeze. 

He runs and empties his stomach into the kitchen sink in front of everyone as his parents enter the room.

 _“Elio?”_ he hears his mother call, shocked. 

But he can’t greet her, as he’s heaving more liquid and bile into the sink as a waft of egg reaches him. He knows it must sound terrible.

“Charming,” his father deadpans as he places his bag down. 

Elio jumps at the feeling of his mother’s hand on his shoulder and then his forehead, feeling for a fever.

“Did you catch a bug? Your forehead isn’t hot,” Annella says, confused. 

Looking up miserably the first thing Elio notices through his sunglasses is that some grey has made its way into the hair at his mother’s temples. It hits him strangely hard to see the change… His parents will only live so long, why has he been avoiding coming here for seven years? 

But then his father realises the cause of the nausea before he can finish retching.

“You smell like a bar,” he says disapprovingly, critical eyes assessing his son’s bowed form through his half-moon glasses. He doesn’t seem to like whatever it is he sees.

And suddenly Elio remembers exactly why he’s avoided this. His mother’s face is a little kinder than his father’s when he looks up briefly, because she doesn’t like to see him suffering, but she’s clearly not pleased with the state of him either.

Elio laments every one of his decisions last night. He heaves twice more before the nausea passes and he can spit and rinse his mouth out. He finds he feels better having emptied the meagre contents of his stomach – he may even be able to manage the breakfast he was seeking out. 

He wipes his mouth on his sleeve and turns, facing his parents to say hello, but his father is already standing with his head tilted and his arms crossed.

“Did you bring Reid with you?” he asks with a sigh. “Because I don’t want him here if you two are just going to drink and fight and yell.”

Elio sighs right back, immediately exhausted by the conversation and regretting ever telling his parents how things truly were with his boyfriend – ex-boyfriend. 

“Reid’s not here,” he says with his voice hoarse from the rough heaving, hoping that the good news will defuse the situation. But it’s clear that his current condition alone is enough to keep his father irritated.

“Well did you come here to have some kind of party holiday then? Is that why you’re hungover? Because that’s not what this house is for, Elio; you can use one of your own for that.”

Elio frowns at his father’s tone – he doesn’t know why they’re so weird about him having money and owning multiple homes when they themselves own two; they’re not exactly starving here. He suspects it’s because they don’t see the value in a sleek modern American property compared to an old European villa with history.

 _…Is that really what they think of me, though? That I would come here to use the villa as a fucking party house? Over_ Hanukkah _?_

Elio speaks bitingly, definitely not sober yet and pissed off at his father’s accusatory tone. 

“If I was going to have ‘some kind of party holiday’ I wouldn’t come to fucking _Crema_ to do it, dad. There’s like, ten people here and _one_ shithole club – and I could get my ass beat for _looking_ at a guy twice there.”

“Okay, let’s calm down for a moment,” Annella says, putting her hands up. Even if she’s had her fair share of tense moments on the phone with Elio over the years, she’s been the closest they’ve had to a peacemaker since he left. “Let’s all just go sit outside and have a nice breakfast and talk. We’ve all got a lot of catching up to do.”

Neither Elio nor Sami says a word as they do as Annella suggests, eyeing each other cagily and taking seats at the table outside, on one of the last days of the year they’ll be able to use it. 

Nowadays Sami finds it more difficult to understand Elio and to trust that he’s doing the right thing the way he used to – he took it much harder when Elio decided to go, and especially when he decided to stay gone. It was the first time Elio seemingly completely disregarded his father’s advice. Annella always gave him a mother’s love, but Elio and Sami connected on so many things, until suddenly it seemed they agreed on nothing at all…

Mafalda looks tense as she places the final food dish on the table and quickly returns to the house to clean up the kitchen; the mood is unmistakeable. 

This will probably be difficult, Elio knows. He wants his parents to want him here so he can feel better, but at the same time, he’s not going to let them make him feel bad about the things he’s done away from here – he had reasons for everything he did, and he knows he’s not the only party at fault here.

“Are you going to take off your sunglasses and do us the courtesy of looking at us properly?” Sami asks with a raised eyebrow after a moment of silence.

Elio wants to groan in frustration at his father’s words but he holds it back.

“I may physically _die_ if I have to look at anything in direct sunlight right now,” he mutters, looking down to avoid his parents’ eyes and rubbing his temples. 

He’s not used to being made to feel weird about being hungover – he’s an adult, it’s no one else’s business to chastise him for this.

Sami sighs. “Good to know you’ve grown into such a mature, responsible adult,” he grumbles, looking to the side. 

Elio is immediately sick of it all. 

“Can you just _lay off me,_ please? I hadn’t even said hello before you started fucking judging me.”

“Well what do you expect, Elio?” Sami asks, incredulous as he leans forward in his chair. “You leave for seven years, completely abandoning your university plans to make millions selling what is essentially sex dressed up as music, then you spend those millions on vapid, meaningless nonsense and you never visit, and then you come back with no notice and the first thing we see is you vomiting bourbon into our kitchen sink. What am I supposed to deduce about you from the impression you’ve made this morning?”

Annella shoots Sami a silencing look and places her hand over Elio’s on the table. 

“Darling, we’re just concerned is all,” she says, brows drawn. “Do you get drunk like that a lot?”

Elio frowns at her tone, feeling cornered and uncomfortable. He removes his hand like his mother’s is scalding and takes off his sunglasses, perching them on his head and trying not to squint in the light.

“I’ll take off the fucking glasses if it’ll get you to relax. I didn’t come here to get _sober_ or something, I’m _fine._ I just went out last night, Jesus Christ…” he mutters. “It’s been two seconds…”

He rubs his eyes in frustration – he knew he would have questions to answer before his parents would leave him alone or help him try to feel better, but he doubts more and more with every passing second that he’s even supposed to be here. He slides his hands down his face and winces as his bruise is pressed – it’s not as bad as it was, but still tender.

Sami tilts his head looking at the mark, finally dropping his irritated body language. 

“How can you be with someone who does that to you?” he asks, his tone softening into sympathetic worry as he observes the dark circles under his son’s eyes, and the pale look about him – what is the hangover, and what is usual for him?

“I’m not,” Elio finally says, not bothering to give his defensive spiel about how he did it to him right back. “I broke up with Reid. Oliver helped me get my stuff and I was on a plane to Italy almost immediately after.”

 _“Oliver?”_ Elio’s mother exclaims, surprised. “Oliver _Lachman?”_

Elio nods, looking down at his fiddling hands. “We’ve met up a couple of times since I thanked him at the Grammys. He helped me see that I needed to get away.”

Both of Elio’s parents clearly want to know more about that – especially given Elio didn’t even tell them that he thanked Oliver when he won – but they’re more worried about the situation with the breakup.

“…Is Reid going to do something in retaliation?” Sami asks with a furrowed brow, concerned.

“I don’t think so,” Elio shrugs. “I don’t know. If he goes crazy for some reason and decides to smash up my stuff… None of the stuff I have in LA really matters, honestly. I’m not planning on going back there for a while anyway.”

“…Well,” Annella begins after a moment of consideration. “I’m not going to lie to you and pretend I didn’t think you should have left him the very first time he struck you. I never thought he was any good, or a good influence…” she says gently. “But I am truly sorry if you’re feeling broken up about it.”

Elio can’t help but think this reaction is very different to the one he would have gotten over the phone. Just speaking to them in person has already made so much difference. He sighs long and hard for what feels like the millionth time and leans forward covering his eyes with his hands, resting his elbows on his knees. 

He shakes his head as he speaks.

“I don’t know how I feel about _anything_ right now, _maman.”_

A few moments pass before his mother coos softly.

“Oh Elio,” she says coming over to give him a hug. He stands to accept the embrace but he doesn’t cry into her shoulder like she thinks perhaps he might. They just stand there for a long time swaying and breathing, eventually joined by Sami, who places a hand on his son’s shoulder. After a few more moments Elio lets go of his mother and allows his father to hug him properly too.

Just like with Mafalda – he’s missed this without missing it.

When they finally sit back down Annella studies her son for a few moments, worried. 

“What’s been going on with you in Los Angeles, _tesoro?_ I got a sense of it on the phone these past few months, but you seem so…” Annella trails off, looking for a word to summarise the worrying accumulation of changes she’s observing in her son, but immediately Elio is shutting down.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, final and sombre, not meeting her eyes.

“Maybe you should, for precisely that reason,” Sami suggests, raising his eyebrows encouragingly. 

Elio takes a moment to think about how he was right when he spoke to Oliver about going to Italy – with the news that he’s broken up with Reid his parents have eased up on him a lot. They can see his exhaustion and his doubt; perhaps with this reprieve they can finally reconnect properly…

But he still shakes his head firmly, knowing it probably looks childish but not caring. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he repeats. 

Sami purses his lips but says nothing in reply, and Annella thanks god for that. Sami’s reaction to Elio outright refusing to consider his father’s advice is half of what started the tension in the first place – if he can keep it to himself then maybe there can be peace.

Elio must see his father conceding, because his unyielding expression softens a little and he gives, “At least… not yet. Maybe later. For now I’d rather hear about you guys.”

 _He will talk about it when he’s ready,_ Sami assures himself as he reaches for one of the many topics they haven’t covered in their phone calls. 

Elio is silent as the breakfast continues, not wanting to share anything that could result in the return of the tension – he’s enjoying the peace of it after everything in LA and then last night. He allows his parents to fill him in, telling him about what the neighbours have been up to and the countless of scandals it seems he’s missed in summers passed.

It’s nice to not have to talk and he tries to allow the light, harmless conversation distract him, but… it all feels so far away from him now. He’s supposed to be comforted by the familiarity of home but he worries he may have left it too late. His roots are gone, put down somewhere else. 

His parents are still a comfort to him, but he doesn’t feel any different. Whatever it was that he thought was going to happen when his parents arrived, it’s not happening.

He feels dejected all through breakfast and he knows his parents can see it by the way they try to cheer him up, the years of quiet animosity seemingly forgotten in the face of their son's vulnerability. 

They try to help by telling him to take a long shower, and then asking him to play something for them on the old grand piano afterwards, but again… it’s just not him anymore, to sit down and play Bach. He still _can_ and he does upon request, but it just reinforces the fear that this is not where he’s supposed to be.

In hopes of suggesting to his parents who he is now, he plays ‘Speechless’ for them knowing they haven’t listened to his and Stef’s recent release. 

He realises that he probably shouldn’t have chosen this particular song when he gets to, _‘I can’t believe how you slurred at me with your half-wired broken jaw’_ , imagining their reactions behind him… the broken jaw is hyperbole of course, but they don’t know that. 

“That was much more… poignant, than I think I expected,” Annella says at the end, seemingly surprised. “And that’s a song you and your friend have released under Lady Gaga?”

Elio just nods, allowing a small proud smile onto his face. It looks like his mother is about to say something else but then his father speaks.

“You never got over him, did you?” he asks softly, not looking up. He heard its true meaning

Elio just rubs his neck uncomfortably, looking down as he shakes his head. But then after a moment’s thought he tilts his head, a thoughtful expression on his face. 

“I think I did, for a little while before I saw him again. Or at least I started to forget. But then it all came back when we met up.”

“Does he know that you feel that way?” Sami asks, not trying to mask his apprehension. “Does his wife? His wife probably isn’t very comfortable with you meeting with him alone halfway across the country.”

Elio sighs, feeling the moment of connection they were having end. 

_This again… Why do they always feel like they need to protect him from me?_

“I’m not an animal,” Elio says, not bothering to keep the offense he’s taken out of his tone. “We were more than just… _fuckbuddies._ I’m capable of enjoying Oliver’s company without riding his cock into the sunset.”

“Elio,” Sami chastises, drawing his name out with a reproachful look. “Was that really necessary? The way you speak sometimes is just… shocking.”

Elio shrugs, refusing to be scolded as he places the cover over the piano and stands. “Well, Stef and I are shocking the world if nothing else.” 

The rest of the day goes much like the morning; some moments pleasant and easy, others so foreign and jarring that Elio has to take a moment to try to piece his life together in his head. Every time he feels truly out of place or awkward he has to reconcile the part of him screaming _how could that be,_ with the part screaming _how could it_ not _be?_

When they sit down to dinner Elio requests water instead of the good Italian wine his parents are drinking, and his mother gives him a funny look.

“You’re not one of those Americans who drinks nothing or drinks the whole bar now, are you?”

Elio bristles at the comment, knowing she’s only half joking.

“I just don’t have a stomach for it after last night,” he grumbles, sipping his water for something to do. The issue is dropped, thank god. 

Elio scowls to himself knowing that it’s true – rarely does he have just one glass of wine and call it a night like he used to. He doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean about him.

_Whatever._

Conversation is pleasant enough after that but then he jumps up and rushes to answer the phone when it rings three quarters of the way through dinner. Annella and Sami frown at each other, curious as to who it might be that their son would leave his dinner to talk to.

 _Not that he was exactly wolfing it down,_ Annella thinks with a frown as she stares at his still-half-full plate. _So many things to worry about with him it seems these days… I should start visiting to make sure he’s actually getting some kind of nutrition._

Elio murmurs into the phone for long enough that his parents give up and ask Mafalda to clear the plates. Sometimes he sounds like he’s joking with the person on the other line, but other times he seems to be discussing pretty serious topics. 

Annella tries to convince herself that it’s rude to eavesdrop – and truly with anyone else she wouldn’t dream of invading their privacy. But with her son’s melancholy, his terrible hangover, his distraction and frowning… she needs to know. 

Ever so quietly, Annella creeps up to the archway closest to the phone and stands out of sight, listening carefully to his anxious voice.

“…didn’t even call to congratulate me when I won a fucking Grammy, Steph.” Silence as he listens. “Look, I don’t know if… I don’t know if they even _like_ me, anymore. They hugged me when I told them about Reid and things have been good today, but they’ve never liked how I’ve lived since I left and I don’t know how long until…”

Frowning, Annella immediately makes her way silently to a seat in another room to give Elio his privacy back, feeling guilty. She feels a tightness in her chest at even just the few words she’s heard.

She _does_ like her son. 

Perhaps she doesn’t _understand_ him very much anymore, but she’ll always like him. And always _love_ him above all else. She’s aware she hasn’t shown it the way she used to in recent years, but it’s harder to show it with only a phone to communicate through and less and less understanding of one another’s lives every day.

A part of her has felt abandoned by her son in many ways since he left, but… in many ways she and Samuel have abandoned him as well. And perhaps their offenses are greater. 

After Elio phoned to tell them not to worry if he didn’t call for a while, they expected to receive a call a few weeks or months later to say that he’d had his experiment and was ready to come home and go to university like he’d always planned and could they please send him some money for a plane ticket…

To instead receive a call from a payphone and be tipsily, breathlessly informed by their laughing son that he was finally being paid enough to call by playing vulgar pop music in bars and clubs with his roommate every Thursday, Friday and Saturday… to hear that he would rather set down his roots in some underground New York scene with a woman they’d never met before than to return to them to pursue the higher learning he knew he was capable of excelling in…

It was a shock, for two well-known academics to hear from their precocious son. It felt like losing their son to America and its vices. It felt like watching their son slip through their fingers...

They couldn’t see the value in what he was pursuing - it felt like he was wasting all his potential because it was _fun_...

For the second time in his life they were desperate enough about Elio’s choices to be truly angry with him, saying some choice words and ruining his joy over finally having some money coming in. He hung up without giving them a number to reach him on and didn’t call back for another three months. 

Every time he called he seemed to be further and further away from them and everything they taught him – at times they were willing to try to understand, but sometimes it felt like he was telling them about choices he’d made just to spite them and then the whole bitter cycle would begin anew.

Things calmed down over the years, especially when Elio’s career took on some legitimacy, and they often managed to have phone conversations without incident. But no one was ever quite willing to truly drop their arms.

…Annella wants to though. It’s not worth it to hold what remains of the grudge, if her son isn't going to change and doesn’t truly know how she feels about him anymore. 

She doesn’t have to see the value Elio sees in his work to support him in it. She doesn’t have to personally enjoy popular music these days, but she can keep track of her son's part in it well enough to know when he wins a _Grammy_ before he tells her. Perhaps she doesn’t understand Elio’s career choices, or the life he’s decided to lead, but it doesn’t mean she can’t be happy for him if he’s happy in it…

Only, he’s not happy. That’s why he’s here.

Annella sighs, settling in her resolve.

Her and Sami’s problem has been that they struggle not to say what they honestly think is best for their son even when they know there’s going to be tension, but… Now is not the time to try to push anything they believe is best on Elio. They’ve tried it and it doesn’t work. 

He’s going to need to decide for himself.

Annella doesn’t know exactly what Elio wants from this visit, but whether it’s guiding him back to the path he was on before he left for New York, or returning him to LA patched up and ready to continue on his own path… his parents will help him do it. She’ll talk to Sami about what she’s heard and she’s certain he’ll drop it all.

_Perhaps we’ve let him down since he left, but we’re not going to let it happen this time._

And so Samuel invites Elio to help him and Annella add all the new books they’ve collected to the library the way he used to do – they used to have such interesting conversations discussing all of the ideas Samuel was playing with.

When they actually perform the activity though, it occurs to them all than perhaps at the time it was more of a meandering lecture that Samuel gave to them than a conversation, because whenever Elio gives his own opinion or interjects to disagree with something the activity seems to lose its old rhythm.

Annella and Samuel are glad Elio doesn’t just frown at the change and force himself to be silent in the interest of forcing it to flow, but it’s clearly not the comforting, familiar experience it used to be. And he doesn’t seem any more grounded afterwards.

They manage to have a few quite nice meals together over the next few days, discussing everything and nothing – and Annella is pleased to see that her son is in fact still capable of just enjoying one or two glasses of wine with dinner. Sami and Annella make an active effort to try to understand Elio’s references and views when he shares them, and they’re happy to see that it’s not lost on him that they’re trying to help when he shoots them grateful smiles.

A week or so in, Annella suggests that perhaps Elio could invite some of his old friends to play volleyball before the snow falls, in hopes that the dynamic within the younger crowd might lighten him up a little. But her son just ducks his head and murmurs that he already ran into a few old friends, not needing to elaborate to communicate that they won’t be any help in this. 

He does seem less weighed down as Hanukkah approaches though, spending much of his time reading in the library, having long conversations over meals, taking longer warm baths, going for even longer walks in a big coat to fend off the cold… He calls his friend Stefani to hear about what she’s been up to very often and that seems to make him happy, but he doesn’t call Oliver, to Annella and Sami’s surprise. 

Maybe they were wrong to worry about the risk in them reconnecting.

Something shifts as Hanukkah begins, though. Elio moves from being carefully peaceful to being bored and listless, like whatever small healing nostalgia the villa managed to conjure in him has worn off. He participates in the games and the singing and sometimes something manages to get a rise out of him, but despite their best efforts Elio still just seems lost again, his peace only temporary.

At first it felt like being cleansed, when Elio chose to read, and relax quietly, and leave his phone in his room on long walks where he avoided any place that reminded him of Oliver to keep his mind blank. At first it felt like washing off the noise and excess of LA to reveal something much calmer and simpler underneath. 

But by the time Hanukkah comes around he’s just bored. He can only calm down and slow down so much before he just feels stopped. He’s managed to avoid thinking too much about anything outside of Crema for a while, but it all just comes back as he realises how _bored_ he is. 

The fact that he hasn’t celebrated Hanukkah in a long time and he doesn’t remember how to do everything properly doesn’t help fend off those returning feelings of being out of place. He’s sitting by the fire late at night on the eighth day of the celebration frowning, trying to figure it out. 

Nothing is changing. He doesn’t feel good. What’s his next move?

He loves his parents dearly obviously – he always has even when they’ve frustrated him – but with his years of deliberate independence so far away from them, they’re just not home to him the way they used to be. 

Even if they’re finally coming around to supporting his choices without reservation they’ve still disapproved of much of what defines him over the years. They don’t reject him for his sexuality like Oliver’s parents would, but some small part of him feels that they’ve been rejecting him for who he is nonetheless, and it’s done damage that will need time to heal completely.

They’ve been doing their best since he’s arrived and it’s helped heal their relationship, but it’s not what Elio really needs right now.

He was supposed to come back home because people knew him here, but it’s only become more apparent over the weeks that they don’t. Not Marzia, not his old summer friends, not his parents, not Mafalda… Even if they want to - even if they're going to in time - these people don’t know the person he’s become.

_Stef knows me. Stef is home, but she can’t always be there, she’s so busy with filming crazy videos and performing right now… Who else knows me enough to be home?_

_Oliver can’t be home to me, he has a family…_

_Maybe no person can really be home to anyone, reliably. People can go away._

_What place can be home? Places don’t go away… Certainly not fucking LA. Where did I feel the most myself? Where did I used to feel good?_

New York. 

How the fuck did he not think to just go to New York? 

It’s the reason he started out on the trajectory of his career in the first place. If he didn’t fall in love with the New York he discovered when he met Stef, he would have just come back home after the wedding.

The reason this place can never truly be home to him again is that the person he is now was born somewhere else entirely. 

Oliver has half of his heart, and New York and Stefani Germanotta have the other half. If he can never truly have Oliver’s half back he’ll go out and find New York’s.

As it dawns on him what he needs to do, Elio realises that he feels too clean here. LA feels so far away now – he’s finished running away, now he needs to run towards something or he’ll be stuck.

He doesn’t need to slow down or clean up… he just needs to get dirty in a way that feels _good_ again, and New York was exactly that for him. Or at least all the parts he and Stefani used to run around – and write and dance and fuck and play their way around. 

For the second time in a month Elio decides that he has to get out of where he is as soon as possible or he might just go crazy. 

The flights have been booked, the arrangements made, and Elio is leaving Crema for New York again this morning. Even when he settled in a little and began relaxing here he never unpacked entirely, so it doesn’t take long to prepare.

He decides to finally call Oliver a few minutes before the taxi arrives.

“Oliver Lachman speaking,” Elio hears over the line in that neutral professional tone that makes him laugh comparing it to the way he’s heard Oliver speak to him.

“Oliver, it’s Elio,” he says amusedly, finding himself quicker to laughter even just in the last twelve hours since he made the decision to leave.

On the other side of the ocean Oliver’s mind seems to stop working. It’s the first time he’s heard Elio’s voice since he had his terrible realisation listening to ‘Speechless’ and he’s managed to go through the motions of his life over Hanukkah and paste smiles on his face where appropriate, but everything has changed since he last spoke to Elio.

“Oliver? Are you there?”

Oliver shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. _Get it together, god. Nothing’s changed, don’t act weird._

“I’ve been waiting for a call from you,” he finally says, trying to keep his voice level. He can’t keep the tenderness out of his voice though, as he asks, “How have you been?”

“I’ve uh…” Elio trails off. “I’ve been bored as shit, actually. But I won’t be by tonight,” he says, the excitement plain in his voice.

“Oh,” Oliver exclaims, surprised, as a stupid, faithless part of him asks, _Did he meet someone in Crema, is he going on a date?_ “What’s tonight?”

“I’m coming to New York! I’ve… kind of realised what I actually need, I guess.”

Oliver’s heart jumps into his throat as the _senseless, traitorous_ part of his mind screams, _Is it me? Did you realise that you need me?_

But all he says is a measured, “Oh, what’s that?”

Elio shrugs though he knows Oliver can’t see it. 

“New York,” he says simply. “The noise, the music, the bars, the solidarity with the people in the bars, the dirt, the greasy street food at two in the morning, the fact that something is _always_ happening somewhere… I just feel like that’s the version of me I want to get back to, you know?”

Oliver doesn’t say anything in reply to the reverence in Elio's voice, just hums thoughtfully and frowns. He doesn’t know – he doesn’t know that New York and he doesn’t know precisely the version of himself Elio's talking about, though he’s sure he would love him just as he’s loved all the others. 

Elio can’t see the frown so he just continues, sharing his thoughts.

“You know, since I’ve been in Crema I’ve found myself trying to dress down to fit in with everyone here? And I’ve realised how difficult that is with only the clothes I bought trying to dress _up_ to fit in with everyone in LA… And then I realised that I was never trying to fit in in New York at all. All of the changes that made me feel like I belonged there just came naturally…”

Elio takes a moment to smile to himself in excitement before he sighs at Oliver’s silence, unable to see the thoughtful expression on the other man’s face. 

“Sorry that probably sounds really pretentious, I’m rambling.”

But there’s a smile in Oliver’s voice when he replies, shaking his head.

“No, you’re not, it’s not pretentious. It’s nice to hear you sound so excited about it. If Crema isn’t what you need you should find what you do need… leave it to you to find something poetic in something as mundane as clothing choices.”

Elio is huffing a happy laugh and just about to ask if Oliver wants to meet up again soon when the taxi pulls up outside.

“Sorry Oliver, my ride is here, I have to go – but I’ll call you once I’m settled; we can get coffee.”

Oliver barely has time to say goodbye before Elio is gone again. He sits there for a moment with the phone held loosely in his hand, too caught up in emotional whiplash to think to put it back in the receiver yet.

_At least he wants to meet up for coffee instead of drinks this time._

Sami helps Elio get his bags into the back of the car and gives him a wistful smile, before embracing his son. 

“Are you sure you have to go so soon?” he asks, though he knows the answer.

“I’m sure,” Elio replies, glad that his time here has repaired his relationship with his parents to the point where he’s sure it can only keep getting better from here. “I’ll be back sooner this time though, I promise,” he says earnestly as he pulls back.

Annella can’t keep the worried expression off her face as her son turns to her, and when he comes over she can’t hold in what’s on her mind.

“Darling I’m sorry, but I overheard you talking to Stefani the night we arrived and I just… I don’t want you to feel like I let you down, _tesoro_. I wanted to be able to help you heal before you left.”

“Oh _maman…”_ Elio says, brow drawn with sympathy, pulling his mother into a hug. 

“You’re not letting me down,” he says, truthfully, not letting her go as he speaks. 

“I’ve needed you these past few weeks. I don’t know what I would have done without you to come home to – probably just given in and stayed with Reid and been unhappy for even longer… _Vraiment maman,_ you’ve helped me more than you know; I’m happy we’ve all had this time together, I just… I know where I need to go now to feel like myself again. _Je t’aime, maman.”_

Elio feels his mother nodding into his shoulder before she holds him tighter and rests her chin on his shoulder.

“I love you too, _tesoro._ Just... don’t stay away so long, please? I couldn’t bear it so long again.”

“Me either,” Elio agrees, finally pulling away and climbing into the taxi.

Mafalda rushes out at the last second to place a small package of homemade cookies in his hands when he reaches out to close the door, along with the thickest, warmest knit sweater he thinks he’s ever felt – she must have knitted it since he’s been home. She wraps her arms around him almost as tight as she did when he arrived almost a month ago and then she’s gone, closing the door and crying out for him to come back sooner through the window.

Elio calls out his thanks – for the sweater, the cookies, for everything – turning around to wave goodbye to his parents and a crying Mafalda, as the car drives away. He knows he’ll miss them dearly with the way things have been these past few weeks… but as he turns forward when they’re out of sight, his heart and his mind are focused on one thing.

_New York._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments! I love them almost as much as Oliver loves Elio! ♥️
> 
> He's off to do some carefree partying in ways he actually finds fulfilling 😎 He'll also get to see how his and Gaga's influence has changed the scene that inspired them, and write some songs that end up on Born This Way very soon :'D
> 
> With both of them in the same city, how will Oliver react to the New York version of Elio?
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	8. The Fame Monster pt.5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio meets up with an old mentor and reconnects with his New York roots...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally supposed to have two extra scenes in it but I liked Rosie when I started developing her and then it was 5000 words lol, so the Oliver stuff will mostly have to wait til the next chapter or this one would have been a behemoth lol
> 
> Hope you like it!

When Elio arrives in New York it’s only around four in the afternoon and he’s starving. So the first thing he does after dropping his suitcase off to his old apartment is swing by his favourite hole-in-the-wall restaurant – though truthfully ‘restaurant’ might be a strong word for it; they only sell burgers and only about three types. He asks for the greasiest, cheesiest one he ever ordered when he was living here. 

Mafalda’s food is always incredible, but there’s just something about a burger that smells like it’s trying to kill you…

The owner still remembers him, giving a loud exclamation and opening his arms for a hug when he comes out to hand the burger off. He insists that he eats for free, but Elio says it’s not necessary and leaves him with a ridiculous tip and an impish smile, feeling better than he has in years. 

“Moved on up in the world, Frank,” he calls on his way out with a salute, smile still in place as Frank waves and laughs, calling out for him to come back again soon.

It feels good to Elio to be able to use his money like that – in LA throwing money around was just a given, but here it feels like it actually means something to the person receiving it; can actually do something good.

The sauce and the cheese drip out of the burger but the old muscle-memory is still there to help Elio as he tries to make sure it all drips into the wrapper or onto the sidewalk, grinning around the sauce on his mouth.

He’s grinning at the taste, at being remembered, at the smells around him, at the sight of all the lights in this part of the city turning on this time of night…

_Fuck, I’ve missed this._

His walk is freer and happier than it’s been in years as he looks around, just trying to breathe as he takes it all in again, wanting to dance in his happiness – this is what he was looking for in Crema, to feel _free_ of everything that weighed him down in LA. In the moment he’s struggling to even remember what the trouble was; did he ever leave New York?

It’s a massive burger so it takes him some time to finish it and make sure his hands are clean, but when he does he finds he has no desire to go home and unpack. It’s a Sunday but that doesn’t mean anything here – people will be out tonight, and Elio intends to be one of them.

At the bar where he and Stefani first started getting gigs it feels like nothing has truly changed, though there are differences. 

Different bartenders, a few new posters on the walls, new bar stools… What catches his eye though is the big frame on the wall with a collage of photos from his and Stef’s performances here – her stage name is in big letters and his is in a smaller print underneath of course, but he doesn’t mind.

He’s won a Grammy, and his work is up for several more in a few weeks, but somehow this feels different. There’s something – affectionate? Touched? – in his chest as he’s looking up at the photos, and seeing his and Stef’s growth; their movement from scruffy upstarts with something to prove to… To something so much more.

Elio has been standing there staring in quiet, private wonder for who knows how long, when all the noise in the room rushes back to him at the sound of the most commanding voice he’s ever known booming through the room with that familiar Texas accent, muddled by years in New York.

“Elio _fuckin’_ Perlman,” he hears, turning around with what he knows is a childish look of delight on his face. “What the fuck are you doing back in my bar?”

Elio barely takes a second to stare with a wild-eyed smile before he’s running at her.

 _“Rosie!”_ he cries excitedly, running up to almost tackle the bar’s owner and the first person to give him and Stef a chance. She’s still wearing wrist cuffs and vests and band tees with the sleeves cut off to reveal her impressive biceps it seems, her dirty blonde hair still in that single braid.

It seems nothing has changed between the two friends as her eyes widen at his approach and she lets out a loud _‘oof’_ as his body collides with hers. She laughs that hoarse smoker’s-laugh of hers and squeezes him far too tight, lifting him off the ground for a moment before setting him down and ruffling his hair like he’s a child and she’s his gruff, much older sister.

She grins down at him and places two hands on his shoulders, spinning him around in circles to get a good look.

“You’re still just… so fuckin’ tiny,” she sighs like she’s disappointed, with raised eyebrows and a shake of her head and Elio might have cried at the familiarity if his instincts didn’t take over. 

“Oh my god, I am _not_ short,” he insists, grinning like an idiot. “And Stef’s still shorter than me!” 

“Nuh uh,” Rosie disagrees, continuing the game and wagging a finger like she’s his teacher. “She’s got all them crazy fuckin’ heels now. I bet she _towers_ over you, niblet.”

“Just because you’re like, The Rock’s daughter or something,” Elio grumbles good-naturedly.

“Pfft, The Rock is my baby brother hon,” she grins before her voice turns genuine and protective and she holds him at arm’s length. “Now if I’m not mistaken you seem to be very much sober, tonight. Is there a reason for that that I should be aware of – somethin’ I should tell the bar staff?” she asks with raised eyebrows, having seen too many friends fall off of whatever wagon they needed to be on.

But Elio just smiles kindly, shaking his head. It’s different hearing this particular concern from Rosie than from his mother.

“I’m fine, Rosie. I only arrived an hour or two ago, so this is the first chance I’ve gotten to go out.”

“Aw, and you came right home,” she coos teasingly as she leads him to the bar with an arm around his shoulder. “Needed to get a bit of that dirty New York bar energy back in you after all that fancy LA cocktail sippin’?”

“Something like that,” Elio smiles, feeling so safe, and known, and understood under her strong arm that a part of him wants to cry, again. 

But most of him wants to join Rosie for the round of shots she’s calling out for. 

He’s not planning to get shitfaced tonight, but it’s his first night back in New York in years and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t have a few drinks at the bar where his career began. 

Rosie goes the whole nine yards, insisting on flaming shots and hauling Elio up to stand on a bar stool next to her. She holds up his arm like he’s a prize fighter and calls out to everyone that ‘Elio fuckin’ Perlman’ is back, whooping that the next round is on the house as Elio blushes, mortified at the display.

A raucous cheer goes up around the room at that, and with their arms entwined the warm shots go down Rosie and Elio’s throats. Little eighteen-year-old Elio might have choked on the spicy taste but he knows what he’s doing now, laughing as they jump down from their stools, and licking his lips to savour the tang. 

Rosie passes him another shot and says that she has to go take care of some things out back, but that she wants to catch up later in the evening if he’s sticking around. Elio nods and smiles, knocking back the second drink and heading towards the small dancing crowd.

There’s no live band tonight, just a loud mix of old and new music on the speakers, but Elio is more than happy to dance to that as his blood warms with the alcohol in his veins. 

It was nice to have a calm few weeks of early nights and single glasses of wine with dinner in Crema but Elio feels more than ready to get back to his real roots here. It feels dirty and pure at the same time and he can’t keep the smile off his face as he dances. 

Most of the people here don’t know him, not caring who ‘Elio fuckin’ Perlman’ is beyond the free round Rosie called because of him, and it’s perfect. New York has always struck the perfect balance between personal and anonymous for him, especially with the intimacy he feels at being known by a special few in the bustle and movement.

He didn’t write it, and the bar doesn’t look how it sounds, but in that moment Elio feels Stef’s ‘So Happy I Could Die’ to his bones. It feels good. Elio feels _good_. He feels really, really good as he’s dancing, even with just the two shots – unthinkable in a pretentious, trendy LA club.

After maybe forty-five minutes on the floor he takes a break to cool off by having a cold drink at the bar, people-watching as he sips.

The difference between 2007 and nearly-2010 New York is pretty clear in the clothing and the hair which is only to be expected, but… surprisingly it doesn’t make Elio feel like anything important has changed to see it in a place as familiar as Rosie’s. It’s only natural for the place to mix its classic atmosphere with whatever is new.

 _Some things stay the same only by changing,_ Oliver’s voice murmurs in his head and Elio can’t keep the nostalgic smile off of his face. It occurs to him that now is probably the time to call Oliver, before he puts his kids to bed.

“Elio!” Oliver says lightly when he answers, having been waiting for the call all day.

“Guess where I am,” Elio says, sipping his drink.

“Cairo,” Oliver says with certainty, making Elio huff a laugh. “Wait, are you in a bar?” he asks, suddenly concerned as he hears the sounds in the background of the call.

Oliver finds it so much harder to trust that Elio is taking care of himself after what he saw in LA. It sounded like Elio was doing okay in Crema, but has something happened in New York, even just in the first few hours? 

“…Are you okay?” he asks. “Are you drunk? Do you need me to come pick you up?”

Elio scoffs irritably – he was looking forward to a nice conversation with Oliver, not a fucking inquisition. He’s sick to death of people worrying about him even if he knows why they do, allowing his annoyance to come through as he speaks.

“Why does everyone keep _asking_ me shit like that?” he demands. “I had a shitty boyfriend in LA, not a fucking _drinking problem._ Christ, I’ve never even called you or my mom drunk and yet it’s still the first words out of your mouths. I’m capable of going to a bar without ending up on my ass and needing someone to come fucking save me.”

Oliver bites his tongue to keep from saying that the very first time Elio called him some of the first words he said were, ‘I’m going to be honest I’m kind of drunk’, because he knows Elio is probably right. Maybe he drinks too _much,_ but he doesn’t have a drinking _problem._ Oliver knows what that looks like and it’s not Elio… He’s just young. Young people go out and have fun – he certainly used to.

Oliver knows he’s overprotective with him, he just can’t help it. 

He’s trying to think of something to say to make it better, but Elio beats him to the punch with a remorseful sigh.

“I’m sorry, Oliver. I shouldn’t have snapped. I know you’re just worried and you have every reason to be after LA, I just… This isn’t a drunk dial. I’m just visiting an old haunt, and waiting for Rosie to be free, and _also_ I’m calling you,” he explains. 

Oliver doesn’t reply for a moment, still thinking of what to say, and Elio regrets his earlier tone in the silence. When Oliver does speak though, all of his apprehension floats away.

“I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions, I know you can handle yourself,” he says earnestly, and then, “Who’s Rosie? Is she an old friend, or a…?”

“Oh, Rosie’s the coolest, Oliver,” Elio replies happily, seeming to forget his earlier irritation immediately, and not hearing Oliver’s apprehension at the thought of him reconnecting with an old girlfriend – for which the older man is grateful. 

“She owns the _coolest_ bar, and I’m pretty sure she could crush me with her bare hands if she wanted to because she’s got biceps the size of my entire body… She kind of adopted me and Stef when we came in begging to perform. She gave us our first gigs way back before anyone else thought we were worth shit…” he trails off and sighs contentedly, unable to keep the pride out of his voice has he continues. “You know, they’ve got our pictures up on the wall here, now?”

Oliver is proud too as he replies tenderly, tilting his head to lean on his hand.

“Sounds like it means a lot to have them there,” he says softly, wishing he could be there with Elio to see his happiness. He can picture the happy, private little smile on his face.

“It really does… It feels good knowing that Rosie’s proud of us. I’m glad I came back,” he says wistfully before his tone brightens. “Anyway, that’s not what I called to talk about. I was calling to see when you wanted to get coffee.”

“I can do coffee on Saturday, at lunch,” Oliver says, knowing he’ll be swamped at the university all week and that Micol wants them to go out for dinner on Friday night. He knows she’s started trying to breathe some life back into their marriage and it’s making things even more difficult for him. But he can’t think about that now.

Elio pouts that it’ll be almost a whole week but he’s happy to let it go and just ask which place Oliver has in mind when he hears a tiny, tired voice in the background asking when daddy is going to come read a bedtime story. His mood takes a dip at that. 

“I’ll let you go, Oliver,” Elio says, carefully even. He takes another sip of his drink just for something to do to distract himself.

“Yeah sorry, Max is calling,” Oliver says. “I’ll text you where to meet?”

“Yeah, that works.”

And then Oliver has hung up, off to put his sweet children to bed and lull them to sleep with the same low, soothing voice that told Elio to call him by his name so many years ago. 

Refusing to be down before he’s even begun to tell Rosie everything that’s happened, Elio finishes his drink and goes back to dance for a while, shaking any tension out of his body with this happy group of strangers until he feels good again. He forgot how it felt to do that truly freely, without fear of judgement.

Some time later he ends up chatting to a kid who reminds him a lot of himself when he came to New York: definitely underage, fresh to the culture, discovering his sexuality... Or in the case of this kid – Alex, apparently – he’s well and truly discovered his sexuality, but he’s still working out the kinks of how to act on it; far too forward for Elio’s taste.

Elio laughs kindly as he rebuffs him, but the kid isn’t put out, drunk and seemingly still happy just to keep talking to him. He knows why a few seconds later.

“I know who you are, by the way,” Alex says as he settles with elbows resting on the bar behind him, having given up any hope of seduction. 

In LA hearing that sentence would make Elio want to groan in dread as ice ran through his veins, but the way this Alex says it makes him think there’s no ulterior motive – the kid just knows who he is.

“You do?” he asks, sipping his drink.

“Well, I mean your photo is on the wall right next to your name, but I also just already knew that you wrote most of Gaga’s stuff… You guys are changing things, you know that?”

Elio’s heart is unexpectedly sitting in his mouth, stopping him from speaking for a moment before he manages to swallow it. No one in LA ever said it like that – like what they were doing mattered beyond the money it could make them and those around them.

“That’s kind of you to say,” Elio says carefully neutrally.

Alex tilts his head, making a curious face.

“Do you not believe me?” he asks, a little incredulously. 

Elio just shrugs. “I’d like to, but I haven’t seen it yet.”

Which isn’t precisely true – he does believe he and Stef are changing things and has said as much to Oliver and his parents. It’s just that in LA he felt so far away from it that it never really clicked. He doesn’t perform, doesn’t have contact with the crowds… It’s been hard to feel passionately that they’re making a difference without seeing it.

The kid raises his eyebrows and says, “Go out any weekend. I promise you, you’ll see it. Maybe people don’t know you that well because they don’t know you’re behind it, but everyone looks up to Gaga. And the ones who know you’re behind so much of it look up to you, too.”

The earnestness in the kid’s voice puts a lump in Elio’s throat again. _Even if we stopped today, it hasn’t been for nothing…_

Elio shakes his head with an indulgent smile to cover up his emotions and sips his drink again, wondering when Rosie is going to be done with her work. 

It feels strange thinking about being someone anyone looks up to, when he’s always felt like a child here. He’s used to being the one taken under the wings of people like Stef and Rosie in New York, not the one with the wings. But maybe it’s something he could grow to work with, he should check out some of the old clubs this weeken—

“Oh my god, is that Ralph Lauren?” Alex suddenly asks, reaching out to gently feel the leather collar of Elio’s jacket. Elio wonders if he’s always so easily distracted or if the kid is just more drunk than he thought.

“Uh, yeah, it is,” he replies, feeling strange about still wearing his stupid designer LA clothes in New York, when so much of the old clothing he’s sure he’d feel at home in is just sitting in his old apartment waiting to be worn again.

He and Stef left behind so much of their New York identities to start fresh in LA… they made a pact about it laughing giddily in bed together the night before they left.

It makes him a little sad to think about how excited they were to go to LA compared with how hollow he felt when he made the decision to leave.

_But you’re back now. Just enjoy it, dumbass. You don’t have to be LA-Elio anymore, just enjoy that you have the money and the freedom to do whatever the fuck you want whenever the fuck you want. Being happy is not this hard with your resources._

Elio doesn’t know where that particular voice in his head came from, but he loves its insolence. Fuck being sad, he’s not going to be sad anymore he decides – at least not after he’s explained everything to Rosie. He resolves to listen to that voice more often.

“You know what? You can have it,” Elio says, taking off his jacket and thrusting it into the fawning kid’s arms as he sees his group of friends approach to leave for another bar.

He’s protesting and insisting that he can’t take it but Elio won’t take no for an answer, and before the kid knows it he’s been herded out the door by his friends with Elio’s jacket in his hands. Elio is giggling to himself light-heartedly as he turns back to the bar. 

_Fuck, was that something special?_ he thinks with laughing kind of joy. _Am I cool enough that giving someone my jacket is something special that they’ll remember? What a fucking joke life is…_

Elio is still giggling when he sees Rosie approaching.

“The youngins remindin’ you of you way back when?” she asks, pouring two drinks and gesturing with her head to the door leading to the stairwell where she smokes when it’s too cold outside.

“I _was_ just thinking that before actually,” Elio calls over the music, weaving through the crowd and out the door to sit on the steps like they sometimes used to do before he left.

“You still smoke?” she asks in the relative quiet of the stairwell, pulling a pack from her vest pocket as she sits down.

“Same as always; only when I’m out, or stressed,” Elio shrugs, taking the proffered cigarette and lighting it with Rosie’s zippo. He doesn’t mention the countless cigarette butts his gardeners have probably picked up off of his lawn in LA since he took up with Reid.

“Y’know it was the craziest thing the first time I heard one of your songs on the radio,” Rosie says. “Blew my fuckin’ mind. I don’t think I could’ve been prouder of you two little punks if I tried,” she continues wistfully as she lights her cigarette, and Elio grins at her words.

“Me too,” he says, remembering the moment clearly. He and Stef were in a hair salon in LA waiting for her roots to be done frying when ‘Just Dance’ came on. People stared at them as they freaked out but they really just didn’t fucking care because _it was all happening._

Elio furrows his brow at the echoing memory and says, “I miss feeling like that about it.”

Rosie draws her brows and asks kindly, “…You don’t anymore?” 

Elio has missed these conversations… Rosie understands a lot more than most. His frown deepens as he closes his eyes and takes a drag, not bothering to fight his lowering mood for this conversation.

“Not really,” he says simply with a shake of his head as he exhales. “I know why we started and I know that I want to take things further, but…”

Elio shivers in the chilly stairwell. He wraps his arms around himself and takes another sip and a drag to warm himself up in lieu of finishing his thought. 

“Where’s your jacket gone to hon?” Rosie asks curiously around a puff of smoke. He’s reminded of Stef’s babying on the phone in Crema, and again he finds himself appreciative of it.

“Gave it to the kid,” Elio shrugs. “With the designer name on the tag I think he found it much more exciting than I did.”

“Was it not exciting to you?”

“Nope.”

“Then why did you buy it, kid?”

Elio just shrugs and doesn’t meet her eyes as he takes another drag, neither completely revealing his melancholy nor concealing it. Rosie knows him though, even after years apart.

“…I know you said you’re fine – and you haven’t been drinkin’ much tonight, which is a good sign in my book,” she says calmly, observantly. “But… are you doin’ okay, squirt? You know you could talk to me if you weren’t… You’ve seemed happy tonight, but now that we’re out here you seem pretty fuckin’ low.”

Elio sighs, his frown not shifting. He does know he could talk to Rosie – she’s seen him laugh, cry, dance on tables, extremely drunkenly inform her that she must be good at sex because ‘man, y’r arms could pinme t’the fuckin’ _sun_ Rosie, _Jesus’,_ ‘Okay, we’re getting you a cab little man’…

Even that doesn’t make him smile in the moment.

Elio shakes his head, not knowing how to summarise. He takes another warming drag instead, rubbing his hands up and down his arms for warmth and waiting for Rosie to speak.

“…What happened in LA, Elly-boy? Tell me how it’s been.”

Elio’s face goes blank at Rosie’s comforting nickname as he bows his head and runs a hand through his hair, pulling at the roots at the base of his skull before he comes back up. 

“It’s been… fuckin’ empty, Rose,” he says honestly. He’s knows he’s on the right path now and he’ll be fine within the week, but he needs to air this to Rosie first. Not everyone he used to know needs to hear it, but she does.

When she doesn’t say anything he just keeps talking.

“I had this boyfriend,” he begins. “And at first it was great. It was… intense. I wasn’t really feeling anything anymore and he made me feel things,” he explains, looking to the side to study Rosie’s carefully neutral listening face. 

“At first it fulfilled me in the ways I thought I needed to be fulfilled and it was a good thing, but then he changed. And we started fighting, _all_ the fucking time,” he frowns. “And then, he started hitting me whenever an argument got bad enough, and I didn’t leave, I hit him back instead. And every time it happened we would just… hate-fuck, until we loved each other again,” he says, and he means to continue but Rosie has heard enough.

“Oh honey that’s not love,” she says in that low voice, soft but very serious like she’s ready to hold him hostage in the stairwell until he understands how terribly, _gravely_ wrong he is.

“I know,” Elio says quickly, trying to diffuse the tension. “I know that now, truly… But I felt like he was the closest thing I had to someone who _knew_ me in LA without Stef or my parents. And in a lot of ways it felt like he knew me _best,_ because he saw all of the worst parts of me because he brought them all out. I know it was fucked up, but…” Elio sighs, slumping his shoulders. “I don’t know.”

That’s all Elio really has, to explain the last few years of his life. He doesn’t know how it all happened. It just got away from him moment by moment until one day he looked at himself and he was empty.

“Is that why you’re back?”

Elio nods. “I figured… LA is poisoned now, and this was the last place I felt really good, and the last time I felt truly connected to what we were doing before LA, so I should go back to where it went wrong and try again.”

“Well…” Rosie huffs. “That’s heavy,” she says factually, and Elio snorts in agreement. “It _is_ all over now though, right? You’re gonna be alright?”

“I’ve left him,” Elio confirms. “I’ve left LA. I’ve been at my parents’ house in Crema for the last few weeks trying to clear my head,” he offers as he draws in more smoke, wanting Rosie to believe that he’s on the right track now.

“Oh,” she says, surprised. “Did you guys have a nice Hanukkah together? Are things better now?”

“They haven’t been good since I left, but they will be, I think. It was nice to see them even if I didn’t really feel like I belonged there anymore. I know I’ve seemed kinda down since we sat down, but truly, I’ve been the happiest I’ve been by myself in _years_ just in the last few hours.”

Rosie smiles thoughtfully, looking out the stairwell’s single open window, at the light and movement outside as the smoke escapes.

“City’s a tonic like that, huh?” she says, smile still in place.

“Mm,” Elio agrees, following her gaze to look at the world outside. “Parts of it.”

It’s comfortably silent for a few moments before he speaks again, quiet but hopeful. 

“I know I’m going to be done being sad about everything soon, and then… I feel like I’m in a spring of my life – does that sound pretentious?” he says, frowning in questioning at the end.

“No, it doesn’t, kid,” Rosie says, low and honest. “Just don’t focus too hard on whether it’s everything you want it to be,” she continues carefully. “It’s good to keep busy, or you’ll torture yourself focusing too hard on yourself. I’m not saying you shouldn’t be thinkin’ about your feelings or lookin’ after your brain; I’m just sayin’ that the happiest people I know don’t sit around wonderin’ if they’re happy enough.”

Elio leans his head on her shoulder, feeling once again like Rosie is his wise older sister. He sighs, feeling suddenly very ready to head back home and go to bed.

“You know a lot of stuff, Rosie.” 

“You live and learn, baby.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Elio says with a slow smile in an imitation of her accent as he nudges her shoulder. 

Rosie huffs out a quiet, husky laugh and agrees, nodding sagely and lifting her cigarette to her lips as she speaks.

“Ain’t that the truth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty! I think Elio is well and truly on the right track and ready to start writing Born This Way babeyy!
> 
> I think I might bring Alex back at some point 🤔
> 
> Talk to me in the comments, let me know what you thought/want! ♥️


	9. Born This Way pt.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio enjoys himself and Oliver enjoys his time with Elio. And then an emergency trip to the hospital makes something clear to Oliver...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, things speed up a bit in this one - The Fame Monster was a bit of a slow beast, but more things happen in Born This Way I promise :')
> 
> I had fun writing this chapter :')) Hope you have fun reading it!

Elio takes Rosie’s advice and doesn’t sit around waiting to feel better like he did in that last week in Crema. 

He’s spent the week giving away the lion’s share of his designer LA clothes to delighted charity store workers, playing dress up with himself in the mirror with his old New York clubbing clothes, cooking luxurious meals for himself sipping good wine in the evenings, playing around with a few new riffs on his old upright and his knockoff Les Paul, dancing for hours to his and Stef’s old and new music, spending long, indulgent hours getting off in the bath to all of the kinky shit Reid never liked…

It’s been a great week. 

Stef calls at one point to tell him that Reid drove any of Elio’s things left at his place over to Elio’s and threw them on his lawn, but the news just washes over him and he moves forward with an amused laugh and a quick call to the gardener to let him know.

It doesn’t even feel real, it’s not really Elio’s stuff…

By the time he meets up with Oliver he’s a different Elio, excited to present himself.

He’s strangely nervous beforehand but he tells himself it’s the lack of breakfast and the two cups of coffee he’s already downed this morning while trying to figure out what to wear – the first time they met up Elio was showing off his slick LA style a bit, the second time he was too busy fighting in the morning to care what he threw on, but _this_ time… he’s showing Oliver who it is he _wants_ to be when it comes down to it. 

He wants Oliver to like that person.

He ends up walking into the shop five minutes early wearing an old white t-shirt with a faded print of Marilyn on it, the worn-in leather jacket he used to wear everywhere to match his scuffed leather boots, and a simple pair of black fitted jeans with a chain. 

Oliver gives him a not-so-subtle appreciative look from his position in a booth when he walks in and Elio finds himself blushing – despite their phone calls and the previous two meetings it feels fresh, like Oliver is finally meeting the _real_ him again, after so many years.

“Oliver,” he breathes when the older man is embracing him, shamelessly breathing in his familiar scent – he uses a different cologne now but the underlying perfume is still the same in all the ways that matter.

Immediately the waitress is on them, asking what it is they want and rushing off to get their drinks. Elio makes a note to give her an unreasonable tip; she looks stressed, and he’s found that doing nice things for people who don’t expect them is one of his favourite activities.

Turning back to face Oliver Elio grins up at him, sitting with his hands uncertainly in his lap. Oliver seems to study him for a long time and Elio can’t read the look in his eye. If Oliver weren’t married he might have called it awe, or wonder, but he is, so…

“You look so much better,” Oliver says earnestly. Elio can hear the relief in his voice and relaxes to match.

“A lot’s changed in the last month,” Elio agrees, unsure what else to say.

“You seem happier,” Oliver says thoughtfully, realising freshly in the moment just how unhappy Elio must have been before… It only lasts a second or two though, the thought warded off by the blissful smile the new Elio before him is wearing.

“I have been happier,” he says, blushing again as he remembers just how _happy_ he was all the times he imagined Oliver tearing leather off his smaller body before taking him, in the bath this week.

Oliver finds himself thinking equally heated thoughts about the blush on Elio’s cheeks, desperate to know what put it there but unable to ask. 

“Anyway,” Elio says brightly, looking for a topic of conversation that will cool him off – and boy does he find one. “How was your romantic dinner?” 

A part of him he he’s always kept tamed is quietly gleeful at the hesitation before Oliver speaks in a carefully schooled tone.

“It was nice, yeah.”

 _Liar,_ that callous, possessive part of Elio whispers. 

Oliver is grateful when Elio lets the talk about his marriage go – he’s not ready to talk about his wife with the person he secretly considers his soulmate, if such things exist. Maybe never. He still doesn’t know how to move forward from here except to just keep going until either he can’t anymore or something shifts.

He’d much rather sit and think about how soft Elio’s hair looks today and how much he’d like to run a hand through it. Or how comfortable that leather jacket looks and how elegantly it would hang over Elio’s shoulder on the walk home from one of his nights out… Or how sweet the movement is as Elio delicately lifts his steaming cup of coffee to his lips and blows gently before taking a sip.

He has to to keep himself from kissing Elio but he can’t keep his eyes from seeing, or his mind from imagining. He made a mistake but he’ll take whatever he can still get.

Oliver’s staring doesn’t escape Elio’s notice and he feels a thrill of pride under his gaze – he can still affect him, even if he can’t have him; that’s a power he retains.

Elio tells Oliver the PG version of his week, tells him all about Rosie (leaving out their sad conversation), tells him how excited he is that he’s started writing again, how excited he is about the Grammys in a few weeks, how excited he is to go out tonight…

Oliver sits in awe of the shining passion for life in Elio’s eyes as he speaks, glad he was able to help him bring it back… But all too soon the sun starts to dip lower and he sighs, knowing he has to go back to playacting and face the coldness in his home he knows he’s the cause of.

Elio knows he has a regretful look in his eye to match Oliver’s as they part, but he’s not going to force Oliver to talk – he knows him, it’ll only make things worse. 

Refusing to dwell on it into the night, Elio shakes off his regret and decides to be excited, putting some bounce in his step as he walks home and prepares for the night. He washes his hair thoroughly and scrubs hard in the shower blasting pop hits he knows Oliver would roll his eyes at and Stef would sing along loudly to. 

He follows Stef’s lead on that one.

He tears his wardrobe apart but ultimately the only alterations he makes to his outfit are changing his shirt to a black, netted, _slightly_ transparent thing, adding a bracelet, and adding a pair of Stef’s old fishnet gloves – they’re not him, necessarily, but he does it in her honour because he misses her. He’ll be cold outside of the clubs, but inside it’ll be just right.

Smiling to himself after a small dinner – leaving room for the inevitable midnight feast – Elio sits down at his piano with a tumbler of whisky and puts lyrics to one of the tunes he’s been working on. 

He can’t have Oliver, but he has these nights. 

That kid last week, Alex, was right. All of the clubs where he and Stef used to dance play their music now, and it feels the way Elio said he wanted to feel again to Rosie on Sunday… It feels new again.

He’s heard his music playing in clubs before, but it’s different to hear it back home where he truly came from and where he belongs.

Even Stef’s clothing has clearly influenced things here. It was inspired by this scene, but only certain parts of it. Those parts have gotten much more prominent because of what they’ve done. 

_We need to take this further,_ Elio thinks. _No subtext or implication, this needs to be at the pointy end of what we’re doing; the spearhead. She’s a big enough presence now that people would accept it if she made a real point of celebrating and supporting this community…_

It’s an emotional night for Elio at first, but something quickly happens that used to happen all the time when he went out alone, and he’s adopted by a group of friends who spy him dancing by himself. He runs into Alex again too when it turns out he knows Elio’s new friends in one way or another – he thinks the kid can tell how much it means to him to see the change as he smiles over at him.

They all end up danced out, drunkenly laughing, and rambling through the streets in search of sustenance by midnight. Elio is certain he won’t remember any of their names in the morning, but he’s also certain he’ll see them in that club again soon enough – and they won’t remember his either.

His ears are ringing by the time he makes it back to his own apartment and he knows it’ll stop him sleeping, so he pours himself one last drink and starts playing around with that song he was writing. He’s happy enough with the draft he has that in his joyful, drunken state it seems like a great idea to call Oliver and show it off.

At two am.

Oliver doesn’t sleep well anymore, so he finds himself spending more and more nights in his study, working on his books until he can't keep his eyes open. 

After seeing Elio he knew this was certain to be just one of those nights, and he’s correct, still typing away at his computer at two am when his phone vibrates on the desk next to him.

 _Elio?_ He frowns. He did mention he was going out tonight and it is very late to be calling unless it’s an emergency but Oliver refuses to answer worriedly after Elio’s offended reaction last time.

Before he can get out a hello Elio’s voice is in his ear, drunk and happy.

 _“Oliver!”_ he cheers. “Look, okay, this time it _is_ a drunk dial,” he confesses with a laugh, his words soft around the edges.

Oliver finds himself surprisingly effortlessly unconcerned, still just happy to hear Elio being so happy.

“Did you have a good night?” he asks, amused and laughing a little himself.

“Oh, the _best,_ I met um… Well I don’t remember who I met but they were fuckin’ _awesome_ and they knew all the words to my songs!” he reveals, excited, before he whispers conspiratorially, “I didn’t tell ‘em I wrote ‘em, Oliver, and they still talked about how much they liked them and Stef… It was _awesome._ Drag queens are the best people in the fuckin’ _world,_ y’know?”

“I’m sure they are,” Oliver indulges, smiling at Elio’s childlike meandering speech – he’s sure he’s going to wake up hurting but it’s adorable. “Is that what you called to tell me?” he wonders.

 _“No,”_ Elio asserts, suddenly on track. “No I wanted to… wait, I have a thing—” he cuts himself off and continues with what Oliver thinks is supposed to be an impression of his voice. “ _’I have some news’_.”

“What?”

“ _Noo,_ you were supposed t’say, _‘oh, you’re getting married I suppose’_.”

_“…What?”_

_“I’m getting married!”_ Elio exclaims with a cackle that tells Oliver he’s laughing at him for not being in on the joke.

“What are you _talking_ about?” Oliver asks, completely lost. “You’re not doing something stupid right now are you? The kind of thing people do in Vegas?”

“Oh my _god,_ you’re not getting it,” Elio groans, annunciating his next words slowly. “I wrote a song today. It is about me. It is called ‘Marry the Night’, keep up.”

Oliver enjoys the playfulness but scrunches his face up and gestures incredulously.

“How was I supposed to know the title of a song you wrote _today_ to know what you wanted me to—"

“ _Shh!_ Oliver shut up, I’m gonna play the song.”

And Oliver does and Elio does. Despite his drunken antics and slightly slurred speech before he manages to focus and play it perfectly, with the accuracy and emotion it seems to require.

Oliver smiles at the self-consoling, determined lyrics. He likes, _“I’m a soldier to my own emptiness, I’m a winner,”_ in particular… he likes to hear Elio talking about himself that way, even if it’s just a way to encourage himself until he feels it naturally.

At the end Elio stays silent for a moment, waiting for the verdict. It takes a second for Oliver to think of what to say while he’s imagining where he’ll be hearing that song on the radio in a year’s time.

“…So that’s how you write the hits, huh?” 

There’s a smile in Elio’s voice as he replies, seemingly having sobered up a little with the depth of his feeling for the song.

“Sometimes,” he says quietly, suddenly bashful at the sound of Oliver’s pride. “Thanks.”

Oliver can picture the blush high on his cheeks, can picture his graceful neck bowing and his shoulders slumping humbly.

“I liked that it was positive,” he says, trying to find the right words. He frowns after thinking about the lyrics for a moment though, confessing, “I didn’t like the bit where you called yourself a loser though – the rest of it was great but you shouldn’t call yourself that.”

Elio huffs what sounds like a private little laugh before he replies.

“It’s not meant as a put-down, Oliver. I _like_ thinking of myself as a loser… Stef always says it’s a compliment, because everyone who ever called her a loser pays for her car collection lining up to buy her album now.”

Elio laughs, and Oliver’s heart warms with love and envy at the sound. He’s always happy when Elio is happy and he’s always known that if he couldn’t commit to Elio then he would find people who could and commit to them, but… he’s also absurdly jealous that someone else has made him laugh that fondly; particularly someone who has influenced him as much as it seems this Stefani has, and someone he’s never met.

It’s strange to think how many things are important to Elio that Oliver has nothing to do with. He wishes he could be more of a regular fixture in Elio’s life. He wishes he could run over to his apartment right now and make him drink water and make sure he gets out of his clothes before he passes out. He wishes any of the things he wants to do to Elio were acceptable…

But they’re not and he can’t.

Oliver sighs, about to succumb to his melancholy, but then Elio gets something he wants to talk about in his head and starts babbling on about everything and nothing unstoppably. It makes Oliver laugh, and makes him want to share his own thoughts on topics, easing something in his chest that’s been sitting wrong for too long, even if it’s just for a few hours. 

He hears Elio getting up to refresh his drink once or twice between when he starts talking and when the first rays of sunlight begin to come up over the horizon, but he’s not worried… If Elio is happy tonight, then let him be happy and young and free… God knows Oliver used to be.

He’s missed just talking for hours like this; they haven’t talked like this since Crema. When they’ve met it’s been about catching up, not _hanging out…_ Even if it’s only over the phone, or over coffee every other week, Oliver knows he’s going to have to see Elio more often, or he’ll be living less than a half-life.

He’s needed this in his life like a long soak after a year lost in the woods. Maybe he’s gotten a quick fix here and there, but now he needs to bask in the warm glow talking to Elio creates, swapping thoughts with him until dawn. 

It’s only when Elio starts murmuring – only semi-coherently – that he’s not tired that Oliver finally stops responding and lets him go, eventually hearing Elio’s breathing even out into the slow, deep patterns of sleep. 

That sound could ease Oliver down to his own sleep any night, he swears.

He sits there listening for a minute or two before he hangs up and turns around to see Micol standing in the office doorway behind him.

“Have you not been to bed?” she asks groggily with a frown, her arms crossed to keep her fluffy winter robe closed.

“Uh, no,” Oliver says, unable to think of anything convincing fast enough. “Elio called to play me a song he wrote and we just got talking I guess,” he shrugs.

Micol raises a brow above sleepy eyes. “All night?”

Oliver looks out the window at the blue of the morning and back to his wife, feeling caught out. “Must’ve,” is all he has to say.

Micol just shakes her head as though saying _‘fine, whatever’_ , and heads towards the kitchen to make herself a coffee. Oliver sighs and presses his hands into his eyes, wondering how the fuck he’s going to get through the day with only the maybe two hours of sleep he’s going to get before they have to leave for the museum trip they promised the kids.

He knows Micol knows something’s up – how could she not? He’s never been the most romantic husband in the world, but lately he knows he’s been absent. He has no solutions as he makes his way to the bed for the few hours of sleep he’ll manage to get.

 _Worth it,_ his brain whispers, and Oliver can’t help but smile a little in agreement as he drifts off to memories of Elio’s calm deep breathing.

In the kitchen Micol is staring out the window with her hands on the counter while the water for her coffee boils.

 _We never stayed up all night talking like that,_ she thinks pensively. _We never played the ‘you hang up first’ game, and if we did he would’ve. He never laughs with me like I heard him laughing with this friend – it woke me up twice for god’s sake. It’s a miracle it didn’t wake the kids…_

_I’m trying and I'm going to keep trying, but it’s just… it’s getting harder to feel like he even wants this._

She hasn’t given up, but Micol is beginning to get tired of having to try so goddamn hard…. She’ll have to keep thinking, keep trying for as long as she can, but… 

But.

A few months go by and Oliver finds himself oscillating between feeling like he’s got more strength to put into his marriage by recharging hanging out with Elio more often, and feeling like every second he spends away makes him less able to keep up the lie. He manages to get it up and finish for Micol when she comes to him, but they both know something is deeply wrong, and every time feels like a more egregious lie. 

She comes to him less now.

He can see how unhappy she is and he can’t stand knowing that it’s his fault, but then he spends time with Elio and all of that just seems to fall away. He’s starting to feel like he needs someone to save him the way he helped save Elio in LA, because the times when he’s with Elio or his kids are the only times he feels anything other than weary. Truthfully he’s just staying the course waiting for something to change, milking what he can from the unwinnable situation he’s created.

Elio, on the other hand, thinks he’s probably the happiest he’s ever been, other than those two weeks in Crema. He can’t have Oliver to keep but he has so many other amazing friends surrounding him every day, and he can still talk to Oliver all the time. Sometimes when they talk for a long time and Oliver gets sleepy he starts talking almost like they’re still…

But they’re not. 

But it feels like it used to a lot of the time, and that’s more than Elio ever hoped he’d have again. 

He can’t have sex with Oliver or kiss him or even touch him in very many ways, but he can do everything under the sun with everyone else. And he does. He’s safe of course – he has a wild streak, not a death wish – but he’s not afraid to have his fingers in many pies. So to speak.

Rosie shakes her head fondly whenever she watches him leave the bar with whoever caught his eye that night just like he used to do, murmuring to herself about some things never changing. The people at his favourite club know him well soon – some for his music, and some for his… other skills. In LA it might have been worrying behaviour, but he’s just so happy… 

It doesn’t hurt that he gets to see badly disguised looks of envious wrath on Oliver’s face every time he ‘forgets’ to cover up a lovebite from the night before. Elio knows he’s worthy of love and desire and not exactly an unattractive person, but undeniably it feels better coming from Oliver.

It’s just a bit of fun and it’s not like there’s any fallout like with some of his old fun.

In LA, Elio would sometimes do MDMA when things seemed hopeless, and suddenly the whole world would fill with love and every movement his body made would flow perfectly as though he was predestined to make it, and every touch would feel like the most perfect caress and he would understand human connection for a _moment_. For a few hours that felt like a _moment_ he would remember what he was writing and striving and living for... and then eventually the come down would destroy him, and make him feel infinitely worse than before. 

He’s realised in New York that so much of what went wrong in LA was just short-sightedness like that. Just making hard and fast decisions to fill a hole and then compensating for the fallout and making the hole a little bit bigger each time... but in New York he doesn’t need MD to reach ecstasy in a club. He certainly drinks a lot on the weekends he knows, but it’s a happy thing, and even if he does very occasionally indulge in something different he knows he’s not compensating for anything. 

It's not like he _always_ goes hard either; he doesn’t want to worry Rosie or be a _terrible_ example to people like Alex and his friends who look up to him – he prides himself on being a wonderful example of how it’s fine to sleep around and get drunk but that there’s more to life and the scene than that, _thank you very much._

Stef always begs to hear tales of his exploits given that it’s so much harder for her to have anonymous sex now, and squeals excitedly when she gets a chance to hear them; “You know, you’d think after everything in LA I might’ve gone off impact play. But no – let me tell you about Gillian”. 

Stef laughs in delight over the phone when he sends her demos of songs with titles like ‘Government Hooker’ and ‘Heavy Metal Lover’, enjoying the second one in particular because Elio tailors the lyrics to specific kinks she’s tipsily disclosed to him over the years.

He doesn’t bring up the music when he speaks to his parents – or much else to do with his less-than-innocent lifestyle – but they seem much happier to hear from him now than any other time since he left the first time… they can hear that he’s happy where he’s at right now.

Naturally, it’s when he’s at his happiest and his rowdiest that biology decides the needs to be brought back down for a second.

It’s been a while but Micol has planned another ‘romantic’ dinner on a free Saturday while the kids are at sleepovers, and he feels like he’s still exhausted from the last one but Oliver is really trying. He’s struggling, but he’s trying to find a way to balance what he needs for himself and what others need from him, in a way that leaves him alive.

He tells Micol she looks beautiful because she does, he thanks her for her compliments about the meal he offered to make, he gives her a quick peck at the beginning and asks how her day was…

She seems happy enough that he’s putting in an effort, even if she wishes it could go back to coming naturally the way it used to.

But they’re only about half an hour in when Oliver gets a call. Usually he wouldn’t pick up at dinner but his desperation to escape the lies he’s telling even without words makes him do it this time.

His heart drops when he sees it’s Elio’s name on the screen. Last he heard from Elio on Thursday he had plans to go out tonight. It’s not even nine yet, why would he be calling?

“Elio?” he asks, speculative tension clear in his voice.

Initially all he hears is quick, intense breathing, and he wonders if maybe Elio has dialled by accident while getting intimate, but then he hears a groan of undeniable pain.

 _"Oliver,”_ Elio gasps. _“Fuck._ I need you to help me, I need help.”

Worst case scenarios flood Oliver’s mind – muggings, drugs, hate crimes, sexual assault… Immediately he’s sitting forward in his seat, the dinner entirely forgotten.

“What’s wrong? Where are you?”

“I’m just at home,” Elio manages to get out, strained, before he breathes in sharply and lets out the tiniest, saddest whimper of pain Oliver has ever heard. 

“Fuck, I don’t know what it is, my stomach started hurting yesterday morning and I thought it would go away but then I had a fever and I was throwing _– argh, fuck! –_ throwing up, and I thought it was food poisoning, but _god_ the pain has gotten so much worse, I—” A helpless cry of pain, followed by anger. _“Ah, bitch!_ Fuck, _Oliver,”_ he begs, suddenly scared again. "Can you _please_ take me to the hospital?”

Oliver doesn’t hesitate or question it for a second.

“Of course,” he says, his brain instantly in that efficient fight or flight mode it switched to when Micol went into labour the first time. “Send me your exact address, I’ll be there as fast as I can,” and then Elio has hung up without replying.

Oliver only remembers Micol is even in the room when he hangs up and sees her worried face.

“What’s wrong with Elio?”

“I don’t know,” he says as he stands and grabs his jacket off the hook. “He said his stomach’s been hurting and he’s been throwing up and it’s gotten a lot worse tonight.”

Micol looks confused. “Wouldn’t that just be food poisoning?”

“He doesn’t think so, he’s in a lot of pain,” Oliver replies, shaking his head and collecting his wallet from the table by the door. “He asked me to come get him.”

“It sounds like it’s not that serious. And if it is, shouldn’t he just get an ambulance anyway?” Micol asks in a doubtful tone, clearly annoyed. “He’s like, a gazillionaire.”

Oliver holds back the words the terrified part of his mind wants to spew at _‘not that serious’_ and just shrugs before he opens the door.

“I don’t think he’d call me if he didn’t need me, Micol.”

“But what about our dinner?” she asks dubiously. “We _never_ get to do this and you’re leaving me to go help some friend you made in Italy eight years ago with his _food poisoning?”_

She’s not fucking impressed with Oliver, but she so rarely is anymore – her ire right now honestly means nothing compared to the pain he heard in Elio’s voice on the phone. 

“I told you, it’s not food poisoning, this could be something serious. If it’s his appendix it could burst any second – that can kill you.”

“All the more reason to just call an ambulance,” Micol mutters as she looks to the side, but she’s clearly given up. She just waves dismissively and takes a sip of her wine, pushing her plate away.

Oliver can deal with her reaction later – all that matters to him in that moment is that he’s free to run downstairs and get a taxi to Elio’s.

He’s surprised to find the door is unlocked when he gets there, but he can see how it got that way when he finds Elio not far from the door, curled up and panting.

“Fuck, Elio, what are you doing on the floor?” is all Oliver can think to say as he kneels down and brushes his damp hair back off his forehead. 

“I unlocked the door but then— It’s cooler here. _Help me, please,”_ Elio breathes, not making any effort to open his squeezed-shut eyes or uncurl his trembling body. 

Oliver tries to pull him up to stand so he can get a better grip to get him outside, but Elio just cries out as his whole body tenses, locking back into the position. A moment later he gags towards the floor, though nothing but saliva and bile comes out. 

“Alright,” Oliver says, businesslike. “I’m just going to pick you up like this, I’ll move you the least I can.”

Elio just nods his head with a pinched expression, and Oliver lifts him into his arms bridal style. He can feel the sweat soaking through Elio’s sleepshirt and sweatpants and he wonders idly if it’s a symptom of whatever’s wrong or if it’s from the severity of the pain.

Elio doesn’t say much beyond loud curses and cries of pain as Oliver takes him down the stairs and places him gently in the taxi. He sighs and looks down at Elio’s sweaty face, at the tears making their way down his cheeks as he swallows his nausea once, twice, three times before they make it even halfway to the hospital. 

“What type of pain is it? What does it feel like?”

Elio doesn’t reply for a few seconds, trembling and breathing and cursing, strained. 

“Like I’m being _fucking stabbed,”_ he manages to get out.

Oliver frowns in distress. It really does sound like appendicitis. If it is Elio will need surgery – tonight.

“Does everything else feel normal? Are you nauseous just from the pain, or...?” Oliver asks. 

“How could I fucking know what’s what, Oliver,” Elio hisses, wincing and making a face like he might burst into sobs for a moment before he summons some strength, continuing impatiently. “I haven’t been able to eat in almost two _fucking days.”_

Oliver doesn’t mention that it’s new information for him, just pulls Elio close and strokes his sweat-soaked hair as he breathes hard, waiting for the ride to be over.

They’re admitted the second the nurse sees Elio pale and shaking in Oliver’s arms, skipping them past the line and rushing straight to a room to answer questions. Elio explains as best he can through the pain, and the nurse waits patiently whenever he stops to swallow a cry of pain before asking him to continue. She needs Oliver’s help to make Elio uncurl so she can feel his abdomen, but afterwards she agrees that it’s probably appendicitis and says they’ll need to run some tests. 

Oliver has seen Elio cry before, but it’s different seeing someone face physical pain than emotional pain. Emotions people can hide away and save to examine later, and people can make themselves act the way they think they should in situations they’re uncertain about. 

But physical pain is immediate. It’s so much more effective at revealing the vulnerable truth in someone. The vulnerability of being human – the blood, the sweat and tears of it… the piss, the vomit and the shit of it… 

That’s real, and it shows you who someone is in a lot of ways… If he thought Elio’s truth would be to just curl up and cry quietly to himself when he was in pain, he was very wrong.

“Mother _fucker!!”_

They end up giving him some serious painkillers in his IV after he’s gotten into a hospital gown and the doctor has seen him, to help calm him down while they get the results of the blood tests. It seems to be doing a lot for him judging by the volume decrease. 

It also seems to make him pretty dopey. 

“Oliverrrr,” he whines. “It hurts,” he pouts – he looks like a grouchy kitten.

“It hurts much _less_ now though – doesn’t it?” Oliver asks with raised eyebrows, masking his worry by putting on the voice he uses with his kids sometimes when they start to complain.

“Yeah, I guess…” Elio concedes, still pouting like a child until he starts looking around the room, fascinated by all the equipment. 

Oliver thinks about how young he seems right now as he watches – in LA all he could think was how much older he seemed, but without the culture and Reid’s influence weighing down on him, he’s seemed so youthful again here… And downright childish, right now.

“Don’t touch that,” Oliver snaps lightly, pulling Elio’s weak hand back down from where it’s reaching to play with the IV bag. 

Elio pouts again, bargaining, “But I’m bored, I’m in _paaain…”_

When Oliver just raises an eyebrow as if to say ‘try me’, he sighs back into his pillows and says, “This is no fun. I was gonna have a fun night at Rosie’s and now they’re gonna cut me all up and I won’t even be able to dance for ages and I probably can’t even eat at Frank's for ages and—”

“They’re not going to ‘cut you all up’, Elio,” Oliver reassures with a roll of his eyes he knows Elio won’t notice. “It’s probably going to be laparoscopic, you’re barely even going to have a scar.”

“What’s laparso… what’s that?”

Oliver can’t help but think maybe they’ve given him too much of the good stuff as he laughs at Elio’s tongue-tied response.

“Keyhole surgery,” he explains. “It’s when they use a few tools and cameras inserted through a few small holes instead of one big incision so they don’t have to cut through so much muscle – it’ll hurt less when you go home and you’ll have less scarring.”

“Well,” Elio grins flirtatiously – or an attempt at flirtatiously. “I didn’t know you were a _medical_ doctor, Dr. Lachman,” and then he’s giggling as though he’s said something clever. 

Just when Oliver thinks his heart can’t take it anymore the doctor comes in and says the nurse was right, and that Elio needs to be prepped for surgery immediately to minimise the risk of rupture. 

Instantly Oliver’s fond, warm, good mood is gone and his head is all over the place remembering all the medical horror stories he’s heard; people being deathly allergic to the anaesthetic and not knowing until it’s too late, surgeons screwing up tiny little things that end up killing people in minutes, the anaesthetic failing to numb the patient properly but them being unable to say anything because of the paralytic…

But the staff are already wheeling Elio out of the room and towards the operating theatre. The nurse sees Oliver’s look of fear and offers for him to come to the door and then watch him be put under before they begin. He nods and rushes after the gurney.

“Oliver!” he can hear from the bed as it wheels in front of him.

“I’m right behind you,” he calls.

“Stay with me! Please don’t leave me!”

Oliver’s heart breaks at the sound of Elio’s frightened voice. He’s probably never needed surgery before, never been drugged up like this before – probably never even needed to go to a hospital before. 

His hunch is right. Elio finds himself suddenly scared – he wasn’t really thinking about the surgery aspect before, just stopping the pain, but now that he’s about to go in he’s petrified. He knows appendectomies are routine to these people but not to him. No one has ever cut into him before, he’s never even broken a bone, he’s _scared._

“I’m right here,” Oliver promises as the staff stop outside the door to give them a moment before they’re separated. He stands by the bed and holds Elio’s hand for a moment, and he’s clearly still drugged out but there’s something like clarity in his eyes as he looks up and speaks.

“Please call Stef, and my parents, I want my parents,” he says, tearing up for a moment before he focuses. “My phone is in the room, the passcode is 2002.”

“I will,” Oliver frowns, wondering how that could be the important thing he wants to say, but then Elio’s expression clears and he looks into Oliver’s eyes like he’s really _seeing_ him in that moment.

“I wish I could kiss you right now. Just in case.”

Oliver doesn’t know what to say as he stares down, caught out.

“I… Me too,” he says softly, vulnerably, before he blinks and pulls himself together, refusing to hear any talk of ‘just in case’. “But you’re going to be fine. It’ll all be okay and you’ll be out in an hour and I’ll be there. I’ll call your parents, and Stefani, and I’ll be waiting for you when they’re done in there, okay?”

Elio just nods like he’s choosing to trust Oliver even though he doesn’t believe it, and then he’s gone through the door and the nurse is leading Oliver into the little observation room. 

He can hear the sounds of the doctors asking Elio questions like his name, his date of birth, and what he’s there for, followed by his timid responses, and then someone setting up something in his IV and asking him to count down from ten. 

He barely makes it to eight. Out like a light. 

Oliver stares silently for a moment while they prepare the tools and place those papery covers around the area they’re going to operate on. He winces as they place the tube in Elio’s mouth and push it down his throat, hating how rough and impersonal it all looks. Do they not care about him at all?

Oliver has a bizarre moment where he thinks that he should just go to medical school and become an amazing surgeon so that if Elio ever needs any more surgeries he knows he’ll be in the hands of someone who loves him and cares about him like he deserves. He shakes his head, dismissing the thought as reality comes back and they start carefully disinfecting the areas they’re going to be cutting into.

“How do—” Oliver chokes for a second. “How do they know he’s really out, that he’s not going to feel anything?”

The nurse gives Oliver an indulgent smile, like she’s heard the question a million times – and of course she has. 

“They know, sir.” 

Oliver just turns back as they set up more apparatus, suddenly very far away. 

He’s thinking distantly how small Elio looks lying on the table with the tube in his mouth… like he’s just an empty body with no one inside. All of his personality, his language, his reckless partying, the way he shamelessly reveals the bruises on his neck, the beautiful music he likes to make for the whole world to enjoy… It’s just not there. Even when he slept in Crema and Bergamo and Rome Oliver remembers being able to see _him_ in his blank, sleeping face and his posture… But there’s just no one in there now.

He jumps when the nurse speaks.

“It’s sweet how much you two care about each other – how long have you been together?”

 _Since the dawn of time, and until the last sun dies,_ Oliver wants to say. 

But he just gives her a wide-eyed look and shakes his head.

“Oh, we’re not—We’re not together.”

She raises an eyebrow as if to say _‘so we’re just pretending that didn’t happen before?’_. 

“Well. You’re still both very lucky to have each other to lean on.”

And then she gestures to the door and Oliver is suddenly desperate to leave the room. He wouldn’t stay if he could, he can’t stand to see Elio like that.

He finds a chair in a quiet corner and thinks about starting to make the calls he needs to make, but as much as he knows it’s all going to be okay his thoughts are magnetic, and he can’t get his mind to move away from them.

_Elio could have died. It rarely does nowadays but a ruptured appendix can easily kill you… He could have just been gone from the world – been the empty body he looked like in there – and neither of us would ever have had each other truly because I’m the fucking coward who couldn’t find a way out of his mess…_

_If the only way out is through, I’m going to have to start finding a way to go through without losing the kids._

_The only way out is through._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously Elio is going to be okay, I'm not a monster lol
> 
> So Oliver has made his decision and now it's just a matter of how long it's going to be before he has enough of a plan to start moving things around - things are in motion 😈
> 
> I hope you liked it! ♥️♥️ Please leave me a comment, they make my day!


	10. Born This Way pt.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver gets Elio home and Stefani says a few things while he's asleep...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not _toooo_ much happening in this one, but it didn't feel right to continue without addressing some Emotions™ and having a few cute Stef moments :')
> 
> I'm not 100% happy with the cadence and flow of this one but I'll drive myself crazy if I read it even once more while self-isolating so I don't give my Oma coronavirus lol
> 
> I hope you like it and are staying safe! ♥️

There’s no peace in having made the decision. All the hardest parts are still ahead. 

It’s chaos in Oliver’s head until his brain is shocked back into reality by the relief he feels when Elio is wheeled back into the room around eleven. He looks like he’s just sleeping peacefully in the bed rather than anaesthetised and empty like he was on the operating table… Oliver just wants to lie down with him to make sure that he’s real.

But instead he stands and nods as the nurse reassures him that everything went smoothly and that he should be fine to go home within the next 12 hours after an observation period. With all of the calls already made there’s nothing for Oliver to do but wait patiently for Elio to come around. 

He runs a hand over his hair, pushing it back off his forehead and studying his face as he finds he always does when he gets the chance. He still looks pale, and the tube running across his cheek to his nose makes Oliver’s heart do strange, terrible things, but it’s nothing compared to how he found him on the floor of his apartment. It’s nice to see him looking so peaceful… it’s been so long since he’s gotten the chance to be this calm and close with Elio.

_I’ve got to find a way to make it happen again – lots of times._

_…Though ‘calm and peaceful’ isn’t really Elio’s speed these days, is it? What would it would be like to be together with how we’ve both changed…_

Something tugs at Oliver’s chest, trying to convince him to stay where he is, and let go of whatever insanity has him thinking he should implode his life with a divorce on the off chance that Elio might be with him again.

_Longing looks and ‘just in case’ don’t guarantee a real relationship, Oliver…_

But he resists his uncertainty and his tendency to back down from big decisions, and holds firm to what he knows to be the right thing to do.

_Even if, god forbid, Elio tells me that it’s too little, and far too late… That’s no reason to stay with Micol and keep making her unhappy being unable to give myself to her fully. It’s not fair to her and it’s not fair to the kids._

Oliver is grateful to be pulled from his thoughts as Elio finally starts stirring like he’s having a bad dream, blinking slowly up at him.

“Hey,” he says softly. 

But Elio just makes a face like he’s tasted something bad as he murmurs confusedly, shaking his head before closing his eyes again.

_“N’veux pas partir… je veux rester avec toi…”_

And then he seems to slip back under, his breathing lighter than before but still in those slow, regular sleep patterns. He wakes up again a few minutes later a little more coherent, giving a dopey little smile when he sees Oliver above him.

“You with me this time?” Oliver asks gently, his lips tugging upwards.

Elio’s smile falls as he scrunches his eyes shut again for a moment and swallows painfully. He brings a hand up to rub at his right eye, staring at the IV taped to it and the pulse monitor on his finger while his brain catches up with what’s happened.

“So I didn’t die then?” he mumbles distractedly.

“No,” Oliver chuckles, a little choked at his still-fresh epiphany. “No, you didn’t die,” he says. “They said it all went perfectly.”

_Well, as perfectly as cutting out one of your more useless organs before it kills you can go._

“Did…” Elio murmurs groggily, swallowing again and moving his hand down to feel the tube in his nose. “Um… did you—”

“I called Stefani, and your parents,” Oliver assures, gently pulling his hand away from the tube and holding it in his own. Elio’s gaze follows their joined hands but Oliver can’t read his expression – if his expression even means anything beyond that he’s watching something happen to his hand. 

“Annella and Sami should be here by tomorrow night,” he continues. “And Stefani said with the time difference she should be here by nine.”

Elio just nods slowly, still out of it.

“She’s the best…” he slurs, closing his eyes again before opening them slightly more alertly as he realises, “You spoke to Stef.”

“I did,” Oliver says factually, nodding with a hesitant smile. It was a pretty businesslike call once the initial shock wore off for her, but she seemed nice enough to Oliver – she answered _‘what’s up buttercup’_ when she thought it was Elio calling which was almost enough to make him smile despite the situation.

“That’s really weird,” Elio drawls, immediately returning to his drowsiness as he takes his hand back and rubs his eye again. “Can’t wait for you to meet her,” he slurs. “She’s so… she’s so crazy, on TV, but she’s so beautiful underneath too… I love her nose… And her eyes’re so…” Elio frowns, trying to think through the drugged-out haze. “When she looks at you, it’s really…”

Oliver chuckles softly as Elio’s meandering words trail off.

“I’m starting to think you might be a little bit in love with her,” he says kindly.

Elio smiles.

“I am, a little bit,” he admits. “She’s a little bit in love with me too… Just enough that it’s not weird,” he laughs before grimacing at the pain that bursts in his stomach at the use of his tender abdominal muscles. 

Oliver stands to get a nurse’s attention at that, berating himself for not doing it the second Elio woke up. 

She runs Elio through the usual post-operative checks and he seems to pass with flying colours by Oliver’s measure, but despite seeming to know what’s going on he’s still pretty lethargic and dreamy. The nurse says the confusion should pass within half an hour or so and then she’ll be back to talk about recovery and pain management over the next week or two.

Elio relaxes back into his pillow as she leaves and gives Oliver a sleepy smile, looking very much like he’s been hit by a truck.

“Thank you for coming to help me,” he says slowly, blinking.

Oliver just gives a quiet, kind scoff, tilting his head.

“In what universe was I not coming to help you?”

Elio sighs and gives a tired smile, lolling his head to the side as it falls from his lips. “I don’t know… a bad one.”

Oliver just wants to comfort him in that moment, so he reaches for the closest thought that might cheer him up.

“It looks like your mom is going to stay and help until you’re fully recovered. Sami has work he has to return to after he visits, but it sounds like Annella plans to stay a while.”

“And until then I’ve got you to feed me and clean my house and bake me little cakes,” Elio jokes dopily. But then it seems to occur to him that that isn’t necessarily guaranteed. “…Right?”

“You do,” Oliver says, glad to see Elio pleased with the idea.

They sit and talk quietly about nothing for a while, with Oliver happy to just let Elio shake off the anaesthesia at this own pace and Elio trying to figure out where the hell he left his brain.

“It’s starting to hurt,” he finally says quietly after twenty or so minutes. He groans, complaining, _“Everything_ is starting to hurt, this sucks _ass_ … What did I do to deserve this?” He raises an eyebrow and lolls his head to face Oliver to deadpan, “Do you think it was all of the meaningless sex and sacrilege?”

Oliver nods very seriously, choosing to enjoy Elio making the best of a bad situation rather than sour his own mood thinking about his _soulmate_ having sex with countless nameless strangers.

“Yes,” he says with certainty. “Definitely. It’s lucky an old-fashioned heavenly smiting can be stopped by modern medicine these days.” 

Elio smiles at that and all Oliver can think is, _I did that._

He takes the backseat once the nurse returns to administer some medication and talk to Elio about recovery, allowing him to take care of it now that he’s himself again – it reminds him of Elio organising flights with such authority in the taxi in LA all over again.

“Alternate taking two paracetamol and three ibuprofen every three hours,” the nurse instructs, clarifying, _“Not_ both at the same time every three hours; alternating.”

“Aw, all that trouble and none of the good stuff?” Elio jokes through his discomfort, grinning lopsidedly. “You did take one of my organs.”

The nurse grins back like she’s relieved to have a patient in good spirits – or maybe she just loves Elio the way everyone who comes into contact with him seems to.

“No, Mr. Perlman,” she says, playing along with the joke. “It was only a vestigial organ, so none of the good stuff this time – it seemed like you got enough earlier.”

By the time she’s left it’s midnight and Elio is looking like he’s drifting off again. Ignoring the late hour altogether, emergency surgery will take it out of you – Oliver is surprised he isn’t out the second the lights dim.

He startles slightly when Elio breaks the silence in the room to murmur, “You can go home to sleep if you want to, your wife is probably wondering when you’ll be back.”

Oliver tilts his head, failing to understand how Elio still doesn’t know he’d do anything for him, especially under these circumstances.

“I’m not just going to leave you in the hospital by yourself after emergency surgery, Elio,” Oliver says, rolling his eyes. “Worst case scenario I can just sleep in this chair; I’ve already called Micol to say I won’t be home.”

For a moment Elio looks like he might protest but then he just sighs, too tired to fight. 

“Staying out all night,” he mumbles, already halfway asleep, tutting. “Terrible family man behaviour…” 

Moments later he’s out, exhausted.

Oliver manages to get a few hours of sleep in the only semi-comfortable chair with Elio’s breathing lulling him into unconsciousness just as he imagined it could so long ago, but it’s not good sleep by any measure. 

He’s awoken momentarily when they come in to do all the post-operative checks, but it’s only when the nurse comes in to ask Elio to try to stand and take a short walk that he wakes up properly. 

He clearly isn’t enjoying himself with the minimal pain medication and it tugs at Oliver’s heart to see him walking so slowly and carefully, but the nurse seems satisfied with the effort and allows him to go back to sleep soon after.

They discharge him surprisingly quickly, waking him up around eight to do final checks, ask him to walk a little longer, confirm future appointments, and make sure he understands expected recovery before sending him on his way. 

His sleep clothes from yesterday very much smell like they’ve spent the night unwashed in a soak of sweat but Elio doesn’t seem to care very much, only interested in getting home and going back to sleep.

The taxi ride seems shorter without the urgency and soon they’re back at Elio’s, walking through the still-unlocked door. 

Elio sighs in wearied relief as they cross the threshold, unable to pretend in the face of his pain and exhaustion – it took them much longer to get up the stairs just now than down them last night, especially with Elio so weak, and unable to curl up to be carried.

Oliver has made his decision about who he needs to be with but he still looks away while Elio slowly changes his shirt. It’s a little bit privacy he supposes, but Oliver mostly doesn’t want to see the evidence of the incisions; he was relatively calm and practical in the hospital but the thought of someone cutting into Elio’s stomach is very much unwelcome now.

“I can’t—” Elio murmurs softly when he’s removed his pants, still lethargic and slow. “I—I can’t, uh…” He gestures to the fresh sweats on the bed and Oliver understands, gently helping him step into them, pulling them up, and tying the drawstring so they don’t fall.

It’s not exactly sexy, obviously, but it’s so, so intimate that Oliver wants to cry at Elio’s unspoken trust in him even after his betrayal so long ago – it sparks hope in his chest that they might still work together, even with entirely different life experiences and without the magic of first love in the Italian summer.

He helps Elio into bed, taking the weight of his torso and lowering him down to sleep – he doesn’t look entirely comfortable, clearly used to sleeping on his side, but nevertheless he’s out again quickly, leaving Oliver alone in the apartment unable to go back to sleep.

He’s never been to Elio’s apartment before, other than briefly last night, so with an hour or so before Stefani arrives Oliver takes himself on a little tour of the place. It doesn’t take long given that it’s a studio apartment, but Oliver does find some interesting things in his cursory look into the closet and the bathroom, blushing and taking himself to the dining table to go through his emails on his phone and wait for Stefani’s arrival.

He doesn’t need to be thinking about what Elio might be doing with those things just right now.

There’s barely a knock at the door before it opens at 9:30 on the dot. 

Oliver jumps and stands up, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands. He’s not sure what he expected but the woman before him looks pretty normal – he wouldn’t notice her passing in the street honestly. 

She’s much shorter than he expected from her larger-than-life persona. 

She’s wearing big dark sunglasses and the tips of her blonde hair are yellow, but her hair is simply pulled into a messy bun and when she takes the glasses off she’s wearing no makeup. Oliver has only seen her eccentrically made up before but seeing her now Elio is right – she’s beautiful underneath.

“Oliver?” she questions, placing the glasses on her head.

“Yeah, uh – Stefani?” he asks uncertainly, as though it could be anyone else.

She doesn’t reply, just rushes forward to pull him into a hug he really doesn’t expect, squeezing him tighter than he would have thought her tiny body could. _It must take a lot of strength and training to do those routines and sing at the same time,_ Oliver supposes absently in his shock.

“Thank you for taking care of him,” Stefani says earnestly, emotionally. “I haven’t been able to be there for him like I should have been, so thank you for taking care of him when I couldn’t – more than once.”

At first Oliver is at a loss for words as she pulls back and looks into his eyes. This woman is tiny, yes, but with so much presence, and so much intense honesty in her gaze that Oliver feels like she’s bigger than he’ll ever be – like she can see, without judgement, what a fraud he is in his life. It’s strange to see such honesty coming from someone known for her disguise and artifice.

Elio was right; her gaze is something to experience. 

“That’s okay,” Oliver says instinctively when he recovers. “He’s just uh—He’s just sleeping right now. The doctors said he’d probably be sleeping a lot for a while, so…”

Stefani just nods, looking around nostalgically before she turns her gaze on the single bed where two used to be. Instantly brought back to that time, she smiles wistfully and turns back around.

“He’s redone the kitchen,” she notes, gesturing to the sleek refrigerator and stove. “I remember when we first rented this place we agreed that the location and the aesthetic were worth the shitty kitchen and having just the one open room between us for the price… Nothing like regularly having sex in the same room to bring two friends closer.”

Her nostalgic smile only gets wider, until she wanders over and sees Elio’s dark curls peeking out from the plush duvet. 

“How’s he been?” she asks more sombrely, and Oliver is only too grateful for her to ask the questions as she sits down and begins stroking Elio’s hair, gently enough so as not to wake him.

“Exhausted, kind of out of it,” Oliver replies with a shrug. “You should have seen him when they gave him the painkillers,” he laughs softly, momentarily distracted from his apprehension by the memory. 

“I bet he’s a class act on pain meds,” she murmurs with a fond look. “I wish I could have been there… I don’t even want to think about what could have happened.”

Elio finally stirs a little at the words and blinks up at Stefani a lot like he did at Oliver in the hospital – dazed and happy, like someone just told him he’s getting a puppy for Christmas. He breaks out into a relieved smile.

“Stef,” he breathes warmly, clearly fighting his tiredness to try to sit up and talk. Predictably, he grimaces and falls back to the pillows the second he tenses his stomach muscles. 

Stefani just shushes him and nimbly climbs over to rest on the side of the bed with more room. 

“Shh, I’m here,” she says gently as she moves closer and cuddles up to his side with an arm over his chest and a leg over his thighs, resting her head on his shoulder. “Just go back to sleep bub, you’ve been through it. We can talk later.”

Still too tired to protest anything, Elio is sleeping again soon, followed not long after by Stefani who must be exhausted from her flight.

It’s strange to Oliver to hear Elio called ‘bub’, and to see someone he doesn’t know getting so close to him… But it’s nice to know he’s got this support when he really needs it; Stefani is an extremely busy woman, but she still made this time to take care of her best friend at the drop of a hat.

He’s heard some about Elio’s friends when they’ve talked, but it occurs to Oliver as he sits back down that he’ll need to be much more involved if they’re going to work – which he realises in the moment is a strange thing to keep thinking about when he hasn’t even brought it up yet. 

He can’t keep his train of thought from travelling onwards though – there’s no doubt in Oliver’s mind that he wants it, but how would he even fit into Elio’s life now? Where does he fit with his friends, with his going out? Where would they live? Would they live together? How soon? How would being with Elio work with his kids?

The questions are lining up as he sits, too numerous and too complicated to even consider right now – he’s not even brought up divorce yet.

_One thing at a time, idiot; there are steps to take before any of those._

Sighing, Oliver decides Elio probably won’t mind if he takes a quick shower to try to feel human again after the long night. It doesn’t take up as much time as he wants, but he does feel better with his sore muscles warmed and stretched out by the water and the steam. 

Rather than torturing himself with his own thoughts waiting for the pair on the bed to rouse afterwards, Oliver leaves a note and occupies himself heading out to get ingredients for all the comfort foods his bubbe used to make him when he was sick.

He was no match for her in the kitchen but he’ll try his best for Elio.

He’s not been back and stirring the soup for long when there’s movement on the bed and he hears someone padding up behind him.

“Hey,” Stefani says, voice hoarse with sleep.

“Good nap?” Oliver asks for lack of a better response. 

“Elio naps are always good naps,” she smiles, seeming not to feel the awkwardness he does as she rifles through the fridge and drinks orange juice straight out of the bottle. 

_I guess it makes sense that she’s comfortable if she used to live here,_ Oliver thinks, mentally shrugging.

“Chicken soup?” she asks, peeking into the pot.

Oliver just hums his confirmation, continuing the stir. The air seems to charge horribly as Stefani stares at him openly. 

“I’m not going to bite you,” she finally says, amused at Oliver’s badly disguised expression of wariness. 

He gives a smile he intends to be good-natured and easy, but which he knows likely comes across more as pained.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Stefani says conversationally, taking the juice with her and jumping up to sit on a counter a safe distance away. 

“You have?” Oliver asks, still carefully neutral.

“Well, the first night I met Elio I got stood up so I was pretty shitfaced, but most of what I remember was him alternating between drunkenly babbling about how much he hated you and mooning over how pretty your eyes were. It was heartbreaking, and adorable,” – that’s Elio – “But I’ve heard the story about the summer at the villa a couple of times over the years,” she continues with a shrug. “Usually when he was wine-drunk and crying at two am, because _man_ does that boy know how to wallow when he wants to.”

Stefani clearly intends for what she says to be taken lightly and enjoyed as a funny memory as she rolls her eyes with a smile and takes another swig of juice. But Oliver finds himself unable to figure out if he’s happy that he’s never stopped being important to Elio or if he’s heartbroken that he’s been important as someone Elio has cried about. 

A few moments later he manages to find his voice to redirect the conversation.

“I’ve heard a lot about you too,” he says. “He was going on about how much he loves your nose and your eyes and how crazy you are when he was coming out of the anaesthesia.”

“Kid’s in love with me,” Stefani shrugs again with a playful smile, looking affectionately over at Elio sleeping. Her smile drops slowly as she stares before she speaks. “What was it like? I mean, I know it’s a really common thing and complications are unusual, but…”

Oliver turns the stove off to let the soup sit before they eat, turning around and leaning against the counter.

“Terrifying,” he says simply. “At first he was just yelling and cursing about the pain which was bad, and then when they gave him the medication he was being really dopey and cute…” Oliver trails off, frowning. “But then right before he went into the operating theatre he got so scared, he was saying—” 

Oliver stops, frown deepening. 

“I just wanted to—” 

Stefani gives Oliver an assessing look as he cuts himself off again, and once again he feels like she can see through him with x-ray precision, snapping pictures of his damage to examine. It’s like she’s weighing his soul, trying to decide whether she can trust him with her Elio.

“Did you have a moment?” she asks evenly.

Oliver’s lack of a reply is reply enough but she still waits for him to speak.

“We uh…” Oliver rubs the back of his neck, finding himself unable to lie or deflect. “We said a few things – and I meant what I said – but I don’t even know if he remembers, and even if he does, I don’t—"

“You’re not going to start jerking him around, are you?” Stefani interrupts seriously, lowering her voice so Elio doesn’t wake up and hear. She doesn’t wait for a response, surging forward and not stopping as she pierces Oliver with her gaze.

“I don’t know what you said but you need to decide what you’re going to do and then stick to that. One hundred percent,” she asserts, her eyes not letting him go. "You can’t give him hope of anything changing if it won’t. He has a good thing going here and he doesn’t need something screwing that up and making things how they were before again – you have no idea how fucked up he was sometimes in LA. He still goes out a lot here but I know it’s not just to get obliterated enough to escape his life anymore. Do not give him a reason to want to start doing that again.”

Oliver stands frozen, torn up with guilt over something he hasn’t even done yet – something he _won’t_ do. Or is it lingering guilt for leaving Elio on that train platform in the first place to lead to everything that happened in LA? Maybe he helped clean up the mess there but he can’t help but feel like he had a hand in it too because he did. The only thing in question is how much.

Oliver is just standing there trying to find his words when they both turn their heads at the sound of a tiny voice coming from the bed.

“Oliver?”

Stefani pours a glass of water and grabs the medication Elio is supposed to take, passing them to Oliver and giving him one last look to ensure her words have been heard before she speaks again, gentler this time.

“Look I know you’re married so that was probably all pointless to say. And I know that you’re a good person, or he wouldn’t keep you around this long – it wasn’t personal,” she says, her eyes softening kindly. “I’m just saying be careful with him. He can absolutely take care of himself, but you’re one of his blind spots and I don’t want anything to ruin how happy he is right now.”

“Oliver?” Elio calls again, louder this time.

Stefani gestures with her head for Oliver to go over to the bed and turns to put the juice back away.

Unable to begin processing all that was just said Oliver doesn’t even try, making his way dazedly over to the bed to make sure Elio takes the pills and see what he wants him for. Setting the water on the table, Oliver helps him up to lean against the headboard so he can swallow.

“I think you should try to walk around for a bit now,” Oliver suggests softly when the pills are down. 

“Well I think you should grow a beard and wear shorter shorts but we can’t all have what we want,” Elio mumbles miserably, but he doesn’t protest as Oliver laughs and helps him up, allowing him to take most of his weight at first and then making his way to the kitchen on his own.

Stefani gives him an amused laugh when she turns around from spooning soup into a bowl for him, as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened in the last few minutes.

“You look like a disgruntled owl with your hair like that,” she says as she takes a breadboard out from a drawer and starts cutting slices of bread for the soup – enough for three. It occurs to Oliver in that moment that he hasn’t eaten anything since his abandoned dinner the night before.

“Fuck off,” Elio mutters without heat.

“You don’t fool me with your cutting words Elly-boy, Oliver here was just telling me all about how much drugged-out you loves my nose, and my eyes, my glowing personality, et cetera,” she counters, gesturing flippantly with the knife.

Elio sits down at the counter and glares up at Oliver.

“Fuck you, too,” he grumbles, and Oliver can’t help but think it’s adorable. “I will not be held responsible for things said under anaesthesia.”

Oliver’s heart drops a little at the words, but he just carries on, trying to stay with reality.

“Will you hate me more if I tell you that you need to do more walking before you can go back to bed?”

“Yes,” Elio confirms, staring down at the counter sullenly. “My hatred knows no bounds today.”

Stefani snorts as she places the food in front of him, “Does it ever?”

Elio just ignores her, realising how deeply, _gnawingly hungry_ he is when he smells the steaming soup in front of him, immediately trying to get as much sustenance inside of him as he can, as quickly as possible. 

The room is silent for a moment while Stefani makes herself and Oliver a bowl and sits down, raising a questioning eyebrow as she watches Elio.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat this fast, did they not feed you at the hospital at all?”

Elio shakes his head, not using his words as he tears into a piece of bread with his teeth, not even bothering to dip it in the soup.

“This is the first time he’s been able to eat anything real in three days,” Oliver explains on Elio’s behalf, dipping his own bread in a more civilised manner as Stefani gives her best friend a sympathetic look.

Once Elio’s stomach has realised that he’s not actually going to starve to death in the next five minutes he manages to sort of hold a conversation well enough through his fatigue, but he definitely picks up on some of the tension Oliver feels. He says nothing, too tired at the prospect of walking around after he’s done to deal with anything yet.

Once the food is eaten and the walking is done Elio goes back to the bed, asking Oliver to lie with him while he sleeps. Oliver is a little bit worried by how much he’s sleeping but he’s been up and about for an hour now, and he’s not about to pass up a chance to be in a bed with Elio.

“Oliver,” Elio mumbles, remembering something before he drifts off. “I’m going to need to ask you to do me the terrible favour of hiding all of my weird sex stuff before my parents arrive. I’m not explaining that to my mom.”

Oliver just huffs a quiet laugh and agrees, drifting off himself not long after Elio in his exhaustion from the bad night’s sleep.

Elio is lucky that Stef knows him well enough to carry out the task of hiding his things before his parents arrive, because he and Oliver wake up when it’s almost dark already. 

They startle awake to the sound of the loud laughter from the kitchen coming from Annella and Stefani, bonding over a pot of pasta sauce. 

“Fuckin’ Italians,” Elio mutters, rubbing his eyes.

“You’re Italian,” Oliver comments amusedly as he helps him sit up, but Elio doesn’t reply, grimacing as he stands but relaxing once he’s up.

 _“Elio!”_ Annella cries from the kitchen, rushing over to get a better look, placing her hands on her son’s cheeks and looking into his eyes with her brows drawn. “How do you feel, _tesoro?”_

“Like someone poked a bunch of sticks inside of me and cut something out,” he deadpans, waiting a few moments before he gives an exaggerated pout.

Annella gives him a look as she pats his cheek and rolls her eyes, satisfied that he’s well enough to joke around and turning to Oliver with a warm look as Sami hugs his son very carefully.

“Oliver,” she says with a motherly tilt of her head, opening her arms for the embrace she didn’t give her son for fear of hurting him. Oliver smiles as he accepts the hug, nostalgic at hearing his name pronounced ‘oh-lee-verr’ again.

“How have you been, _muvi star?”_

“Worried about him,” Oliver says, gesturing to Elio with his head and smiling.

“I’m _fine,”_ Elio says, rolling his eyes and making his way slowly to the kitchen, having seemingly forgotten his fear before the operation altogether. 

He already looks better than before as he sits down and starts answering his parents’ questions, seeming not to resent their doting tuts and coos entirely. He rolls his eyes at Oliver, at his mother’s hand still sitting protectively in his hair after five full minutes. Oliver can’t help but smile emotionally though, given that his own mother was never so free with her affection.

He’s not helped by the sound of Elio and Stefani joking around about the incisions while he’s in the bathroom – Oliver has had friends, but never anything like what Elio and Stefani seem to have.

“Come on show me,” Stef demands. “I’m not squeamish.”

“I am,” Sami says, moving away so as to avoid the sight of even just the bandages.

Elio lifts his loose shirt, indulging his best friend in her curiosity. He raises his eyebrows as she looks, waiting for a verdict.

“Ugh, boring,” she intones after her inspection, yawning theatrically and complaining, “They’re all covered up, there’s not even any blood.”

“This isn’t the VMAs Stefani, I’m sorry my wounds aren’t gruesome enough for you, you monster,” Elio jokes, pulling his shirt back down.

“That’s _Mother Monster,_ thank you very much,” Stef ribs back, nudging his shoulder with a grin. 

“Well you’re being a mother- _something…”_

As he washes his hands Oliver hears what sounds like a short-lived struggle followed by a tiny grunt of pain, coming out of the bathroom to find Annella shaking her head at Elio holding up his hands in the universal symbol for surrender as Stefani twists his ear.

“Okay _Jesus,_ you win!” he calls, and she lets go. “What the fuck happened to _‘you’ve been through it, bub’?”_

Stef gestures exaggeratedly and makes a face, speaking in a fake Italian New York accent.

“I poured you a bowl of soup kid, what more do you want? You’re cured,” she says mockingly, but then she drops the act and nudges his arm, smiling gently. "Sorry, bub."

Annella sighs, put upon but clearly fond of the pair before her. 

“I’m beginning to think I’m going to have to look after two children,” she smiles, giving Sami a look.

"We don't usually act like this," Stefani swears. “I promise to be a good kid, Mrs. P.,” she says, placing her hands under her chin in feigned innocence.

Elio snorts at that, earning him a punch in the arm which he takes with a groan and a gesture that says _‘okay, okay, I’ll stop’._

“For real though," Stefani says when her good-natured smile returns. "They’ll look like cool Matrix holes when you uncover them.”

“I wouldn't mind fighting evil robots in the rain with a sexy hacker lady dressed entirely in leather," Elio shrugs with a raised eyebrow which Stefani returns, seemingly having forgotten that his parents are in the room.

"You're giving me ideas, bub, now is not the time," she laughs, brushing past the awkwardness anyone else might feel. Or maybe it's just Oliver's family that would be uncomfortable at that.

Looking on, Oliver can’t help but be torn, for the nth time, between how grateful he is that Elio has this without him, and how it makes the parts of him that shrivel when Elio goes away ache.

When Annella asks if he’s staying for dinner it occurs to him that he should probably snap out of it and go home – with the urgency of the situation and then the seismic shift of making the decision to leave, his equilibrium is totally off. 

He finds it hard to go but there are more people taking care of Elio than he even needs right now. He’ll be fine.

Despite his continuing fatigue Elio gets up to hug Oliver at the door as he leaves, whispering in his ear as he holds him as tight as he can manage right now.

“Thank you so much, Oliver. It means a lot to me, that you’d… everything – you have no idea.”

Usually Oliver would make a joke about how Elio would have done just fine without him, but he can’t bear to deflect in the moment. He needs to know Elio cares as deeply as he does about him. 

_Or at least, please god, something approaching it._

Oliver wishes they didn’t have an audience so he could say even a fraction of what he wants to say, but as it is he just rubs a hand over Elio’s warm back and holds him for as long as he can without it looking strange.

“You just try to keep me away,” he finally says with a forced smile as he pulls back, and for a moment it looks like Elio sees something of the truth in his eyes as he searches them… but then he takes a step back and starts closing the door as everyone in the kitchen waves goodbye, and he’s gone.

Oliver takes a moment between Elio’s apartment and his own to catch his breath properly and pull his walls back up. He’s decided, but he can’t just go home and act like someone else expecting everything to turn out alright. 

Stefani was right; he can’t jerk Elio around, he’s got to have everything settled before he can ask anything of him.

…If Elio even wants him to ask, given that it seems he doesn’t remember what he said before the surgery and _‘won’t be held responsible for things said under anaesthesia’._

It’ll take some time and there’s no guarantee it’ll go the way he wants… but Oliver knows that the honesty he saw in Stefani’s gaze as she saw right through him came from having lived her life authentically and unapologetically. 

It’s one of the things Elio likes best about her, and Oliver finds it’s one of his favourite things too, for the little he knows… And he wants it for himself.

He _needs_ it for himself, or he’ll become a shadow of a person.

The whole way home his mind repeats just as it did after Elio went under the night before; 

_The only way out is through, the only way out is through._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annella is totally adopting Stef lol
> 
> I'm really looking forward to writing the next chapter, I hope you'll like it!
> 
> But for now tell me what you thought about this one in the comments because they are _my_ painkillers 😎♥️:''')


	11. Born This Way pt.3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio recovers, and Micol is finally done...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty so this originally included the part I mentioned I was really looking forward to writing, but if I included that it would've been an 8,000 word monstrosity, so I thought I'd give these events a chapter of their own and upload the next part later once it's edited.
> 
> I hope you like it for it kicked my ass!

Elio knows Stef can see how distracted he is all night. He plays the worst game of Trivial Pursuit of his life, he couldn't even tell you the name of the movie they watched, he has to ask his parents to repeat themselves about three times when they ask where Stef’s old mattress is… all because he’s caught up thinking about the look he saw in Oliver’s eyes right before he left.

He’s too preoccupied to even think to protest his parents sleeping on a mattress on the floor rather than taking the bed.

They laugh and chalk it up to post-operative exhaustion but Elio doesn’t sleep for hours after everyone else has drifted off. 

He’s too busy trying to sift through what’s a dream and what’s just hazy to remember through anaesthesia or pain medication. He knows he dreamed of him after the surgery; knows he dreamed of Oliver putting him in a car going somewhere far away to make a home without him, watching him disappear in the rear window, expressionless and cold…

But what else was a dream? What else was real?

_Did I tell Oliver I wanted to kiss him, to his face? And did he tell me he wanted that too? Or did I dream it? I’m sure it happened, I’m sure I didn’t dream that._

_Did he mean it, or was it just because I was scared?_

Stef must sense how tense Elio is even in her sleep, because she instinctively snuggles closer and tightens her grip in bed at night, making it impossible for Elio to even use his phone to distract himself for however many hours he has ahead until he sleeps. 

_Honestly I’ve always known he still wants me, but in what world does what Oliver_ wants _have anything to do with what he_ does _?_

Elio wants to groan in frustration but he can’t, because the only thing worse than sifting through his thoughts in silence would be not being able to sift through them because he woke someone up.

_I’ve got to let it go, I can’t put that kind of pressure on him… It was a moment of madness in a scary situation; if he hasn’t said anything it’s probably because he’s trying to just let it fade slowly…_

In that moment Elio really wishes they would have sent him home with some proper fucking opiates, because in twenty-four hours he’s gone from spending every weekend going out to dance and fuck half the town because he’s accepted that he can’t have Oliver, to spending the foreseeable future in bed with his parents four feet away, unable to sit up easily on his own, let alone dance or fuck half the town… Lying awake with a gorgeous blonde-haired father of two hijacking his every thought, _again…_

 _Maybe you’ll never touch me again, Oliver, but you’ll never stop fucking me will you,_ he thinks mirthlessly as his mind whirs ceaselessly on into the night.

Elio is rudely awoken by Stefani sticking a finger in his open mouth in the morning, already humming ‘Take a Chance on Me’.

He groans but doesn’t resist as she pulls him up to sit.

“It’s too early for an ABBA morning,” he moans, rubbing his eyes and glaring.

“It’s already nine, Sleeping Beauty,” Stefani retorts, tapping the tip of Elio’s nose with her index finger and pressing play on his sound system remote with her other hand. “Your parents have been out being cute at a café they went to in the eighties for over an hour, and I’m bored of waiting for you to wake up, so you and I are going to make pancakes. _Before_ the sun goes down.”

Elio knows Stefani won’t hesitate to use force regardless of the holes in his abdomen so he doesn’t resist as she pulls him to his feet and herds him into the kitchen, sniffing at him as she does.

“Jesus _Christ_ , when did you last shower?” she despairs. “You smell like you _did_ die of a ruptured appendix, how the hell did I sleep next to you last night?”

Elio scowls, though he appreciates how lightly she’s been treating the situation.

“You are an actual bog hag,” he accuses. “I was sweating from _pain_ and then recovering from _emergency surgery,”_ he defends with a roll of his eyes. “I’m sorry I don’t smell like roses and fresh linen.”

Stef just curls her upper lip, making a disgusted face.

“I can forgive offenses committed up until now, but you need to go and shower – or… sponge bathe, or whatever it is they said you can do with the stitches. I’ll get the batter started while you de-stink.”

Elio uses his middle finger to let Stef know exactly how he feels about her attitude but does as she says. He does feel marginally better having showered and washed his hair but he still needs her help to get another pair of loose pants on, joking about how glad he is that she’s here to do this while he can’t, and not just his mom.

Stefani huffs a laugh at that but then becomes abruptly very serious as he pulls his shirt on, tilting her head and drawing her brows together as she looks deep into his eyes.

“Hey,” she says softly, taking his hands. “I know I’ve been ribbing you but I’m really glad you’re okay. And I’m sorry you went through something scary.”

Elio lets the words sit for a moment so she knows he understands the significance she means to convey after months spent apart, and then he pulls her into a hug, closing his eyes at the warmth.. 

“Thank you for coming to visit me,” he murmurs earnestly, allowing himself a moment to be real and tear up a little at how long it’s been since he’s seen his best friend. “I know they would have tried to convince you not to take the time off, so… thank you for coming anyway. I’ve missed you.”

Stefani sighs, not releasing the embrace as they breathe together.

“They did try,” she admits staring over Elio’s shoulder, sober at the reality of their industry. “But I told those assholes I was leaving and where they could shove it if they didn’t like it – doesn’t mean anything to sing about being a ‘free bitch’ if I can’t be there for my best friend when he needs me. I’ve missed you too, Elly… So much.”

They stand there for long a moment listening to ‘Chiquitita’ in the silence of the apartment before Elio speaks.

“This is kind of our song, isn’t it?” he mumbles with his head on her shoulder.

“It is kind of, huh?” she agrees, remembering singing it as they laughed drunkenly the night they met, spending the evening lamenting the existence of men in their lives by the piano at her old place…

It’s so different to how things are for both of them now, but in other ways, it’s exactly the same. Their lives may have changed but the instant connection they found that night is still there.

In a bizarre moment of wandering thought as he studies Stefani’s inked shoulder Elio muses out of the blue, “We should get matching tattoos.”

Stefani just laughs and lets him go, ruffling his drying hair.

“Are you still high?” she asks amusedly. But as she returns to the kitchen she actually considers the idea, and agrees, “That could be cool actually… If we think of something good. And you know, when you don’t literally still have holes in you.”

By the time Annella and Sami get back the pair are ladling batter into the pan and wasting far too much trying to get it on each other’s faces to the tune of ‘Dancing Queen’, like they did so often when they lived here years before.

“Oh, I remember when this song first came out,” Annella says, with nostalgia and awe in her voice as Sami twirls her smiling towards the kitchen.

“Was it your song?” Elio asks, enjoying the idea.

“No,” Sami sighs after giving his wife an adoring kiss. “Too early for us. Our song from their repertoire would probably be ‘Rock Me’ though.”

“Elio’s would be ‘Gimme a Man After Midnight’” Stefani snorts as she flips the last pancake. Elio makes an indignant noise and pulls on her ponytail, hard. “Or ‘Voulez Vous’!” she cackles, undeterred.

“They speak French, they know what that means!” Elio hisses but Stefani doesn’t stop laughing.

Annella perches herself elegantly atop a chair at the breakfast bar and sighs with a smile.

“Elio, _tesoro…_ Give us some credit; we knew you weren’t a monk. We’ve heard your music.” 

She rolls her eyes playfully in her husband’s direction for seemingly the millionth time since Stefani came into their lives less than a day ago.

“Your son is a harlot Mrs. P!” Stef calls, still laughing as Elio pulls her hair again. _“A floozy and a strumpet!”_ she cries as he curses in Italian and hip-checks her as hard as he can manage with his wounds, to place the final pancake on the stack.

Sami watches on, smiling privately and slightly tearfully as his family laughs. Despite the years of separation he might once have blamed on her, he can’t help but enjoy the addition of Stefani to his extended family. 

He’s so enjoyed the way she makes Elio so happy and carefree…

Perhaps it’s time for him to celebrate that Stefani was exactly what Elio needed when he left, and to acknowledge that their music was something he was always meant to discover and pursue – not a derailment, or something to merely accept… 

…Perhaps the world was just waiting on Elio’s parents to catch up with such a beautiful reality as this.

Eventually Stefani has to leave, promising an emotional Elio that they’ll see each other sooner this time at the door. Sami leaves shortly after with the very same promise, leaving Annella alone in the apartment to help her son recuperate. 

She does an impeccable job of it naturally, and after a few days Elio feels he really doesn’t need much help anymore – Oliver was right about the surgery being laparoscopic, and the doctors were right about the recovery being quick. 

Even without the weeks’ worth of reheatable curtesy meals passed to Annella by an awkward Rosie and an unsure Alex one morning early on, Elio would have been just fine on his own after the few days it took for him to be able to bend over without pain.

But his mother is still with him two and a half weeks after the surgery.

They’ve experienced the joy of bonding over comfort-food cooking once again, firmly re-established their mother-son bond watching old movies until they've fallen asleep, had long reminiscing conversations going on into the night about their memories of Elio’s childhood…

But very quickly Elio finds himself feeling much the same as he always has – and thus absolutely _desperate_ for his mother to leave so he can start to resume his frankly very family-unfriendly life.

Finally he snaps at the beginning of the third week and tells his mother that he truly appreciates all she’s done for him and that he loves her very, very much, and could she please, _please, go home._

Annella raises her hands in playful surrender and smiles, informing her exasperated son that her plan was always just to stay until he asked her to leave, and the very next day she’s giving him a kiss and a smile at the door just like Stefani and Sami, patting his cheek and waving lovingly as she goes.

Elio breathes a sigh of relief and immediately begins planning when he thinks he’ll be up to going out next – probably not for another week or two, but soon. At least until then he’ll be able to have his life, his space, his _thoughts_ to himself.

Even if a troubling number of those thoughts are about Oliver again.

While Elio has been recovering Oliver has been quietly investigating how he should go about the divorce. 

Micol doesn’t deliver the angry speech he thinks she will when he returns home, because she feels bad for insisting it was nothing when it _did_ turn out to be potentially life-threatening; she doesn’t make any effort to hide her quiet discontent though. 

Her restraint gives Oliver time – and hope that she’ll be relieved to be out of the marriage too, when the time comes.

Oliver doesn’t pretend he’s doing anything else when he visits Elio a month after the surgery to give himself the courage he needs to continue on his path – Gracie’s eyes are intelligent beyond her years as she frowns watching her parents dance around one another and it’s put the fear back in his heart over the weeks.

He needs to remember what he’s doing it all for.

Elio is curled up on the couch wearing what seems to be a hand-knitted sweater and drinking tea when Oliver visits under the pretence of delivering another – at this point completely unneeded – meal.

He doesn’t bother to pretend that it’s anything other than restaurant-made, leaving it in the packaging in plain view. 

It confuses Elio as he watches Oliver remove the food from the bag – he’s torn between receiving the message that Oliver doesn’t care quite enough to bring a home-cooked meal, and the message that the meal is merely a thin veil to mask that he’s truly just here to visit because he wants to visit.

They never used to visit each other at home, so it feels so much more intimate to spend time together now than it has previously in New York...

He pushes his thoughts to the back of his mind as Oliver places the food in his refrigerator and joins him on the couch, choosing to just be present.

Oliver raises an eyebrow at what’s on the screen.

“Escape to the Continent?” he questions with quelled laughter in his voice.

“Hey,” Elio protests with a nudge. “European houses are pretty,” he insists with a gesture to the Mediterranean property on the screen.

“They are,” Oliver agrees with a nod, still smiling softly. “I just didn’t really expect the composer of Lady Gaga’s ‘Teeth’ to be sipping tea and watching a real-estate show about them.”

Elio shrugs contentedly as he brings his tea to his mouth to sip with a mockingly serene look.

“It can’t all be sex clubs and sacrilege,” he replies wisely. “I’m a multifaceted individual,” he says with another elegant sip and a smile in his voice.

“That you are,” Oliver agrees, the depth of what he feels for Elio plain in his eyes in that moment. But Elio isn’t looking, pretending to be absorbed in the conversation taking place on the TV; the buyers are willing to stretch their budget, it seems.

Oliver is happy to sit on the couch and take sips out of the tea Elio offers to him before getting up to make them each another cup later in the evening – it’s boundary-blurring domesticity, but they’re both content to let it sit unspoken and move no further.

Oliver would honestly be satisfied to watch paint dry in dead silence if it meant he got to sit next to Elio for a few hours.

Elio still finds himself worn out more easily than before even a month after the surgery, and so when he slowly falls asleep on Oliver’s shoulder later that evening the older man carefully carries him to bed – carefully enough that he barely stirs.

He wakes in the morning to an empty apartment and an empty bed, and all he can do to keep it together in his conflicting relief and disappointment is heat the food Oliver brought with him the night before and enjoy that it’s from him, not caring if he’s eating dinner for breakfast.

_Why has this all come back with such a vengeance? I need to find a way to get past this or it’s all going to go wrong again…_

A few weeks later Elio finds himself out for the first time since the surgery, and it’s just like it’s been every other time he’s been out in the last few months. Eager to make up for lost time, he’s already been with a woman and then a man in the bathrooms this evening - so far it’s been one of the better nights out he’s had by himself.

Two so early is a little much even for him, but he’s managed not to think about Oliver too much so far, which he counts as a serious win.

As the night begins to unfold, though, it quickly becomes apparent that he’s still worn out easily and that any tolerance he had is gone from the weeks of tea drinking post-surgery… It doesn’t occur to him that he should pace himself more carefully until he’s already wasted and exhausted.

He knows it’s a precarious situation but in his experience it’ll probably be okay – he’s definitely been out in worse states before.

In a moment of slightly droopy-eyed madness when he finds himself sitting in a corner sipping another drink he calls Oliver, his tired, intoxicated mind putting Oliver’s voice and happiness together.

_Surely Oliver plus Elio makes happiness – also I think I probably need someone to take me home at some point if I don't get a second wind..._

“Elio?”

There’s concern in Oliver’s tone but Elio doesn’t want to worry him so he follows his happiest drunken instincts.

 _“Heyy, Oliver!”_ he exclaims from the quietest corner in the club – which is to say not a very quiet corner at all. 

“Are you out?” he asks in a tone Elio’s muddled mind finds impossible to read. He continues onwards choosing to believe it’s fine.

“Yeah, I’m out, _finally!”_ he cries as he laughs drunkenly and tiredly. “Been more than a month, but everyone fuckin’ remembers me – there w’sthis one guy, in the bathrooms...” Elio begins, but thinks the better of it before continuing - it’s one thing to let Oliver see lovebites on his neck the morning after, and quite another to tell him all about the sloppy blowjob he got in the bathrooms an hour ago.

“Anyway,” he sighs, but he can’t think of anything more to say, his mind muddled by exhaustion, alcohol, and the thumping bass in his ears.

Oliver frowns in the silence, sat down for dinner at nine in the evening almost exactly like when Elio called him last. 

Only this time it’s his and Micol’s anniversary dinner. She’s already understandably fuming that he’s answered the phone.

Oliver knows he shouldn’t have answered but the night hadn’t exactly been going fantastically in the first place and he couldn’t contain his worry at seeing Elio’s name on his phone screen at this time of night again.

“Do you need me to come to you?” he asks, concerned at Elio’s clear lack of awareness of himself and of the tone of the conversation.

“Umm…” Elio trails off, considering. “I think you prob’ly should. ‘M pretty fucked up…”

Oliver brings a hand to his forehead, sighing to release some of his building distress at Elio’s words.

“Elio, are you just drunk? Or did you take something?” he asks, concerned and frustrated. Elio’s never mentioned doing anything else but he wouldn’t rule it out.

“’M just drunk,” Elio assures. “You’ll need t’catch up when you get here though,” he snorts. “’M fucking _wasted_ Oliver… Capital wuh—”

“Elio I need you to focus,” Oliver interrupts with a stern tone, too anxious to humour him. “Where are you? Is there anyone with you who can help you?”

“’M at Fluffy’s – no one’s with me, I _promise…_ I won’tell anyone you had fun, I _swear.”_

Oliver just sighs in distress again as Elio giggles at his own ribbing, overwhelmed by the thought of the absolute _anything_ that could happen to him in this state.

Oliver hasn’t seen Elio like this since they got drunk in Rome. He’s sure he’s been more intoxicated than this many times before – especially with what Stefani told him about him in LA – but hearing his voice now… all Oliver can picture is Elio getting mugged and being left in the street, being unable to get home by himself, being _taken advantage of_ in so many ways…

He can’t risk letting any of that happen knowing he could have stopped it.

“I’m coming to get you,” he says in a tight voice, willing all those terrible images to leave his mind. 

Elio gives a cheer and starts to say something else, but Oliver has already hung up and stood to retrieve his coat, just like last time. 

Only this time Micol doesn’t say anything as he walks to the door. Surprised, Oliver turns to face her and explain before he walks out.

But she wears a weary, defeated expression that stops the words in his throat, staring at her husband with raw, bare, painful honesty.

“This is over, isn’t it.”

It’s not a question.

The words hang heavy in the silent air as husband and wife stare at one another at a tipping point of their lives. On the edge of something – at the end of something. 

Oliver answers with an equally honest gaze and a helpless, laughably inadequate shrug as he’s caught out, not knowing what else to give this brilliant woman he’s so utterly failed for so long.

He can’t change how he feels about Elio but she’s deserved so much better than he’s given her and it was his mistakes that drove them here. Not hers.

Micol brings a hand to her forehead with an elbow on the table and just shakes her head.

“Oliver…” she breathes, trailing off as though every time he’s let her down is running through her head at once, as the love she’s felt before in their marriage slips through her fingers… 

Her disappointment is quiet, and immense. 

Her husband is not the man she thought he’d be, and she’s given up hope that he might one day change.

“Just go,” she murmurs, immeasurable regret in her resigned voice, closing her eyes and turning her face away as she sighs.

Oliver wants to fall to his knees and apologise, to plead and beg her to forgive him for all the hurt he’s caused her in the years they’ve been together - it's important to him that she knows he knows he's in the wrong...

But the only thing more important than that is probably one drink away from passing out alone in a club ten minutes away.

And so he goes. 

He doesn’t look back as he closes the door.

There’s nothing he can possibly say.

At first he feels nothing but nausea, self-hatred, and dread. But as the streets pass him by in the taxi and Micol’s reaction feels further and further away, something like relief slowly takes up some of the space in his chest. 

It sits heavy in his chest and he wants it to – he deserves to feel the weight of it – but it is a release... it's just been such a long time coming.

He’s finally let go of all of the tangled wires he’s been trying to manipulate into the _right_ shapes his whole life. 

It’s all uncertainty from here. Nothing is guaranteed and he doesn’t know how Micol is going to feel in the morning or what she’s going to do in the divorce or how he’s going to live his life now…

But it’s done. 

He’s free to be with the man he loves, if he’ll have him.

He’s made the sacrifice for himself, and for this man he loves so much.

Now all he needs to do tonight is find that man and keep him safe; if only for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Micol ☠️☹️☹️
> 
> Please let me know what you think with a comment! I am truly craving interaction in these isolating times! :')))!
> 
> Hope everyone is doing okay with everything going on ♥️♥️


	12. Born This Way pt.4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver takes Elio home and they have a beautiful night together...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, I guess this virus thing is getting around properly where I am; someone I know just tested positive and now her family are officially quarantined for two weeks (they're all fine tho)
> 
> Anyways, this chapter was ass this morning but I think it's acceptable now 😪 
> 
> Also I drew [Elio's outfit at the club](https://theuniversaline.tumblr.com/post/613728119843602432/hi-hello-this-is-how-i-drew-elio-in-chapter-12-of) if you're interested in a visual reference.
> 
> (Also the Gaga song they listen to is [Heavy Metal Lover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lyN5157_Xos), the song Elio puts on to lighten up is [iFly](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BAF3mZPeZCQ) by Ball Park music (fun facts: one of my high school's old drama teachers is in the video and one of the locations is where my parents met :'D), and of course at the end, [Little Lies](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yWutmIaNv-o))

Oliver knows he gets some strange looks walking through the club – it’s Saturday night in a New York gay club and he’s wearing a pair of slacks and a button down. But he doesn’t care; the only thing he cares about is finding Elio. 

He said people knew him here, so he asks at the bar and is quickly directed to a seat in a dark corner where Elio is currently doing a slightly better job of looking sober than he did of sounding it earlier. Oliver knows him though – he can read the slump of his shoulders as he sips the last of his drink from a tiny straw. 

He seems very much unaware of what’s going on around him as he approaches. 

Oliver stands there staring down at Elio from his left side for a long time, consumed in anxious thoughts of him being driven to escape like Stefani said he did in LA, again – all because Oliver said something at the hospital that he should have been saying for years. 

_He’s seemed so calm and stable since then, but what if I’ve misread something?_

After far too long Elio finally looks up, and smiles wide when he recognises Oliver, clumsily placing his drink down on the table and standing to throw his arms around the older man.

“Y’re here!” he cries happily, losing his balance slightly in his excitement and being saved only by Oliver’s instinct to hold him up. “Sorry,” he mumbles drowsily, giving a sheepish look through eyes lined with heavy makeup which extends outwards.

In a strange moment in his joy at finding him in one piece, Oliver just muses that he’s never seen Elio in makeup before, and that it actually quite suits him. It probably looked better before it got smudged to hell, but even so he still looks beautiful.

He shakes himself out of it quickly, placing a hand on each of Elio’s arms and looking deep into his eyes to convey that he won’t be persuaded on this.

“I’m taking you home,” he says firmly. 

Elio frowns, clearly having a different idea in mind. 

“But you only jus’got here! You c’nstay f’r a second, ‘s barely ten…” he protests, his argument a little undercut by his inability to articulate it clearly.

Oliver tilts his head, raising an eyebrow.

“Exactly,” he says as he picks up the wallet and phone Elio is lucky weren’t stolen right off the table in front of him. “It’s barely ten, you’re wasted; you can’t stay here. You look like you’re about to fall asleep.”

Elio seems like he’s about to protest again but Oliver just gives him a very serious look, maintaining it until the younger man sighs and acquiesces. 

“I _am_ pretty tired…” he concedes in a murmur, giving in and allowing Oliver to pull him through the crowd with a relieved sigh.

 _At least he’s not a argumentative drunk,_ Oliver thinks gratefully.

They’re almost out when a striking woman with assets on full display and the air of a predatory vampire about her stops Elio, running a black, pointed nail down his arm and speaking suggestively over the music.

“You were incredible earlier baby; I’d love to do it again sometime…” she purrs.

Elio doesn’t reply, merely gives her a salacious look and blows a kiss, waving as Oliver pulls him towards the door.

_He said he was with a man earlier; was she a he? …Unless he’s been with both tonight._

_Two before ten, is that not a sign of reckless escapism?_

Outside Oliver hails a taxi with the stiffness of a corpse and tries to keep his concerns at bay while they wait. Elio picks up on his stony silence and misreads it, furrowing his brow and looking up with a glowering expression.

“Are you judging me f’r hookin’up with two people‘n one night?” he asks defensively, torn between desperately seeking Oliver’s approval, and telling him to grow the fuck up if he doesn’t like it.

Oliver frowns, confused at Elio’s tone.

“No, I’m not,” he refutes with a shake of his head. And it’s true – he’s not _judging_ Elio. He’s _worried,_ about what his actions might imply about his mental state.

“Good,” Elio says, accepting it without another thought and continuing. “If it’snot that then, why’re you…?” he trails off, gesturing to Oliver’s tense posture questioningly, raising an eyebrow.

Oliver sighs, shrugging and meeting his gaze.

“I just didn’t think she was your type,” he says simply, which is true enough – he would never have imagined Elio doing anything with such a fierce, intimidating woman until tonight, and particularly not one wearing so little. 

To Oliver it just feels like stacking evidence that tonight is a bad omen – hopefully of something he can stop in its tracks when he tells Elio about the separation, but a bad omen nonetheless.

Elio just snorts at the words though, his eyes not leaving Oliver’s as he assuages his unspoken fears.

“I like _ev’rything,_ Oliver…” 

He looks down and his lips slowly lose their amused tilt before he meets Oliver’s eyes again, with an honesty that defies intoxication and exhaustion.

“If I have a type, it’s just you.”

Oliver is just about to respond with a soft _‘me too’_ echoing his words in the hospital, but as he opens his mouth a taxi pulls up and his focus is pulled elsewhere, needed to get Elio into the car smoothly in his uncoordinated state.

It’s only once they’ve gotten clumsily into the cab and fastened their seatbelts that Oliver lets out a sigh of relief and allows himself to think about parsing out the situation.

One important question in particular jumps to mind given recent developments – maybe it’s none of his business, but it’s going to be on his mind if he doesn’t say anything.

“Were you safe, with those people tonight?” he asks, hoping his tone conveys that he’s not asking like a prying parent but rather as an invested, devoted equal.

It’s clear that Elio doesn’t hear either of those meanings though, as he replies softly.

“Yeah, w’s safe, they were nice…” he says with a smile. “People there’re mostly nice.”

Oliver sighs, wanting to pinch the bridge of his nose. It’s sweet and he’s happy people were nice to him but he needs to know – the last thing either of them needs right now is Elio getting sick.

“No, Elio— I mean… were you _safe?”_

“Oh!” Elio exclaims, with a surprised raise of his eyebrows before making a face. “Yeah, always,” he says, giving Oliver a look as though it were obvious.

Well that’s something.

For a few moments the only sound in the taxi is the quiet radio playing Top 40 hits, but eventually Oliver decides to just cut to the chase.

“…Elio, why did you get so drunk tonight?” he asks softly, looking down at his hands and preparing for the guilt Stefani’s words planted in him to bloom.

It seems to take a second for Elio to catch up with what he’s conveying with his serious tone, drawing his brows together as he thinks.

“Oliver… I wusn’t trying to…” He shakes his head, trying to wake up as he continues. “It was an accident,” he insists. “I haven’t drunk in ages, ‘nd I just get so _tired_ s’metimes since the surgery, I didn’t think…”

Oliver assesses Elio for a moment as he looks up at him innocently, trying to determine if he’s even capable of deception in this state. Looking into his shiny, earnest eyes in that moment, Oliver decides he does believe him – his peace of mind just demands that he prods a _little_ more…

“You weren’t trying to get drunk out of your mind or do anything reckless? You just miscalculated?” he questions, trying to keep the hope out of his voice – _Don’t lead the witness, Oliver._

Elio nods and hums his agreement, allowing himself to feel his fatigue again and closing his eyes slowly.

Something in Oliver’s chest unclenches at the sight as he gives Elio a tender, gentle look. Without the shadow of a potentially returning unhealthy coping mechanism clouding his view of it, Elio’s sleepy inebriation suddenly seems soft, and sweet.

He nudges his love to keep him awake, knowing that they still have a ways to go before he can sleep.

_It’s not my fault this time, I didn’t mess him up again. Thank god, he’s okay, I didn’t mess him up again…_

_But if Elio was doing things with those people not for distraction, but because he wanted to… I guess I have a lot to learn about the night-time side of Elio that he’s never really shown me before._

Oliver is pleased to find that he’s not wary of it – he’s not afraid that it’ll be too much or show him that Elio has changed too much for them to be together now… He’s just excited, that even after all these years Elio still has new things to show him.

Once he’s absolved himself and taken a good look at Elio in the calm of the car Oliver decides to start learning now.

“What’s on your face?” he asks though he knows the answer, just for somewhere to start. Elio bats his eyes teasingly, looking up from his position leaning on his shoulder.

 _Heaven. I’m in heaven,_ Oliver thinks.

“S’eyeliner. ‘Nd eyeshadow… don’t you think it’s pretty?” Elio asks coquettishly with a grin.

Oliver snorts affectionately, trying to remove some of the smudged makeup with his thumb and enjoying Elio’s easy acceptance of his touch.

“It is pretty, but you’ve definitely rubbed your eyes a bit tonight,” he says, giving up on the makeup and pulling off the single thin, dangling clip-on earring adorning Elio’s left ear. The younger man scrunches up his face and says ‘ow’ softly, bringing a drink-weakened hand up to feel where it was pinching him.

“What are you _wearing?”_ Oliver asks with an amused huff as he assesses Elio, enjoying the tight leather pants but confused about the contraption around his shoulders. 

Elio grins again, looking down and fingering the dark glittery material. “Oh, it’s a harness,” he explains. 

“Are you a horse?” Oliver asks, amused.

Elio wrinkles his nose, his filter still gone though his speech is much clearer now.

 _“No,”_ he protests, with an indignant frown. “Not into the horse thing… Don’t like puppy play either… No judgement, s’just not my thing, y’know?”

Oliver tilts his head, confused – no, he doesn’t know.

“What are you talking about?” he asks. “You don’t like playing with puppies?”

Elio shakes his head with certainty.

“No puppies. I could do like… a kitten thing maybe,” he suggests, lifting his hands lazily and doing a frankly too-endearing imitation of a cat bath before breaking into a little laugh at himself. 

Oliver’s heart squeezes at the sight despite that it’s dawning on him that this is definitely a sex thing.

“Okay, Elio,” he murmurs, wrapping an arm around him and enjoying the soft smile it brings to the younger man’s lips as he watches the city go by.

 _He looks so content under my arm… I’d pick him up from a club every weekend for the rest of my life if it meant we could do this on the way home,_ he thinks, finally allowing his thoughts to be openly adoring knowing that he’s free.

He decides it’s probably best to walk the last few blocks to the apartment to get Elio’s blood pumping and get some coffee in him. The driver is only too happy to oblige, eager to get the drunk person out of his car before he throws up.

Walking with Oliver’s arm around his shoulders and some caffeine in his system it occurs to Elio that this is unusual, and probably a little inappropriate for a married man to be doing.

He’s not about to turn it down or cut it short though – he’ll take what he can get.

They’re in the door for about two seconds before a thought occurs to him as he’s unlacing his boots. 

“Are you gonna leave me here ‘nd go home now?” he asks, trying to keep his dejection at the thought out of his voice so Oliver won’t feel bad when he goes.

But there’s no need.

“No,” Oliver replies intently. “I’m staying the night so you don’t get into any more trouble,” he explains with a playful grin, his heart soaring as surprised joy replaces that poorly-disguised dejection on Elio’s face.

 _If staying is all it takes to conjure that look I’m never leaving again,_ he thinks stupidly.

“Are you gonna keep me entertained?” Elio asks teasingly as Oliver makes a beeline for the closet to find him some more comfortable clothes. 

Knowing he’s too distracted to notice as he replies in the affirmative, Elio makes his way to the kitchen to pull out one of his nice bourbons and a shot glass. 

When Oliver finally looks over to see what he’s up to he immediately rushes over.

“Nonononono,” he says quickly, standing between Elio and the liquid to be a physical barrier between him and downing it. 

Elio just snorts at Oliver’s reaction as he steps back and gives him a bright, amused look up and down, his demeanour entirely different now that he’s not so tired.

“’S not for me,” he says with an entertained huff.

Oliver frowns, confused as he glances at the amber liquid.

“Elio, I’m not doing shots right now.”

But Elio just brushes past and holds the glass up to Oliver’s face height.

“Well I’m not hanging out with a sober person right now,” he counters, raising an eyebrow knowing he’s going to win this round. “You take it or I will – two, or I walk.”

Oliver huffs disbelievingly, thinking, _I should have known he wouldn’t want to sleep anymore the_ second _he got home._

“You’ll walk where?” he asks incredulously.

“Walk straight back into a club,” Elio replies, equally incredulous in his challenge, though he doesn’t truly mean it. “ _C’mon,_ solidarity,” he insists, waving the glass in front of Oliver’s nose to break his will with the expensive spirit’s rich scent.

Oliver huffs a put-upon sigh, but he can’t hide the smile on his face as he raises the shot to his lips.

 _It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to have a little of this type of fun every now and again if we were together,_ he thinks, feeling younger than he has in a long time as he swallows.

He protests without conviction when Elio begins pouring another shot but the younger man just insists that he said two and passes it over, seeming to sense that something has shifted in him tonight – somehow, they’re on the same side of the glass again after having to look at each other from the other side for so long.

A little giddy at the prospect of a tipsy night with Elio, Oliver lets go of his reservations and tells him to pour a third shot just to see the look of freedom and excitement in his eyes at the words, like he can’t believe his luck.

_God I would give him anything he wanted right now. I would do anything to put that spark in him, that look in his eyes, that glowing smile on his lips…_

Oliver is completely caught up in his love for Elio and in astonishment that he ever thought he could suppress it as he watches him fiddle with the sound system and place his phone in the dock, returning with a look in his eyes he can’t decipher.

“How would you like to be one of the first people in the world to hear a finished song from Stef’s next album?” he asks.

“Depends,” Oliver says as the alcohol begins to affect him. “Did you write it?”

“I did,” Elio smiles, enjoying Oliver’s attention on him; enjoying the way he cares about things he wouldn’t normally care about when he’s involved. “Some of it is about Stef’s kinks because I wrote it for her, but some of it was me.”

Oliver raises an eyebrow with a smirk, saying, “Oh, it’s _that_ kind of song is it?”

“It is,” Elio grins back, guiding Oliver to stand in front of the speakers and pressing play. 

It wouldn’t usually be Oliver’s type of sound but with the single light in the kitchen barely reaching them and the way Elio looks with his leather pants and his harness, the sharpness of the beats and synths takes on a kind of beauty he doesn’t expect – both bright and dark. 

Delicately, he returns to the task of getting Elio into more comfortable clothes, undoing the straps holding the harness to his chest and tossing it aside. He waits to see what Elio will do next before making another move. 

Not breaking eye-contact, Elio removes his shirt and throws it in the same direction, choosing not to question whether it’s the right thing to do still believing Oliver to be with his wife.

Oliver doesn’t even think to keep himself from looking down and taking in his love’s no-longer scrawny chest, his slightly broader shoulders, his toned abdomen… Time has been nothing but good to Elio and he doesn’t bother to keep his appreciation off his face.

He knows they won’t have sex tonight – not like this; not after so long – but he can still look, intoxicated by the music and the alcohol and by Elio.

Elio stares up at Oliver as he stares down at him, confused at the uninhibited way he’s behaving but unwilling to break the spell. Eventually he removes his pants and his underwear with them, and then he’s naked, standing before Oliver bare as he was the night they first fell into bed together. 

And everything has changed since then…

And yet everything is also exactly the same.

Elio knows in the back of his mind that he shouldn’t be standing like this in front of a married man, but his eyes are glued to Oliver’s and he’s too busy bathing in his enthralled gaze to focus too much on that. 

He hasn’t felt this beautiful being looked at in years – and it’s nothing to do with sex, his hazy mind insists. 

_Oliver can_ look, _and as long as he doesn’t_ touch _nothing bad has happened, surely. Or at least nothing worse than what we’ve already done._

_We’ve never stopped being in love after all – Oliver has been cheating in his heart since the moment he said ‘I do’…_

As he stares down Oliver is nowhere near as deep in the drink as Elio is, but it still takes him a moment to collect himself and think to get him into his sweatpants and a shirt. Gingerly, he lowers the shirt over Elio’s head and helps him into his pants, allowing his thumbs to graze his soft skin all the way up his calves and thighs as he pulls the fabric. 

It’s as intimate now as it was after the hospital… more so perhaps, without the pain.

When Elio is dressed he pulls his arms to his chest and leans into Oliver, humming contentedly in the warmth of the older man’s arms and choosing not to think too much about what’s just happened.

He’s had sex with so many people, but so rarely has he had real _intimacy…_ He’s going to enjoy it while it’s here, in whatever form it takes.

_It’s Oliver’s business if he doesn’t stop himself._

As he holds his love and tunes out the song, Oliver can’t help but think that the moment is important. 

These have always been their best moments; quietly tucked away from the rest of the world with no one else to answer to… perhaps they’ll need to work hard to find ways to fuse their day to day realities when the time comes and they do have to answer to others, but moments like these make it all worth it.

Looking down wanting to take in as much of Elio as he can tonight, Oliver watches silently as he sings along quietly in his arms with his eyes closed.

 _“I could be your girl, girl, girl… Girl, girl, girl…”_ he sings softly, taking a breath and murmuring, “That part was about you, you know?” He pauses for a moment to consider. “I probably shouldn’t tell you, but I was thinking about what it would be like to be married to you when I wrote that part.”

Oliver’s heart does something painful he can’t describe as it bursts into joy, washing away some of his many doubts at least for now.

_You were thinking of me! You were thinking of marrying me! I’ve never stopped thinking about you and now I know you’ve been thinking about me too! All I do is think about you some days, I swear…_

Hope springs in him, but there’s too much to explain right now so he just holds Elio a little tighter and hums deep in his chest.

“I’m glad you told me,” he says gently, swaying them side to side for a moment before Elio speaks again, very seriously.

“You seem so different tonight, Oliver… and I know it’s not just in my head because I’ve been drinking; you seem…” he trails off, frowning in thought and looking up to meet his eyes again. “You seem free, tonight. Unafraid. What’s changed?”

Oliver smiles a little sadly, wishing he could just tell Elio that he is free – for the first time in years, he’s actually _free_ of his self-tied bonds… but he doesn’t want to end how easy and beautiful this is with the talk that would have to follow such a confession. 

It’s been so long since he’s had something like this that was actually _his_ to have even for just one night, he can wait a little longer to speak…

“I’ll explain in the morning,” he finally murmurs softly. It’s the best he can offer.

Elio seems willing to accept it, allowing Oliver to extricate him from his arms and sit him down on the floor as he goes to the bathroom in search of makeup-remover to wipe away his once-fine work.

As the song ends and another comes over the speakers the air between them changes to match the strange sadness of the tune – it’s definitely not Elio or Stefani.

Elio opens his eyes when the makeup is almost entirely gone, stopping Oliver in his tender ministrations.

“Are you doing this because you still think of me like a kid and you think I need you to do this for me? Or it is because you care about me and you want to be here with me?”

He draws his brows together, clearly sitting on a thin line and ready to tip either way.

Oliver wants to hang his head and weep at how wrong life has gone, that Elio could doubt how he feels about him in this way.

“Elio…” Oliver sighs, allowing his grief to slip into his tone before meeting his gaze. “I’ve never thought of you like a kid,” he says earnestly. “Not even when we first met. I just want to take care of you because I care about you – because I love you.”

“Don’t say that…” Elio says softly, looking down and away.

“Elio—”

“No, don’t. I shouldn’t have asked. We’ve been having a nice night and you told me you’d say whatever it is in the morning. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Oliver wants to protest but Elio is already standing and walking over to his phone to change the song to something lighter, so he lets it go.

Some cheery acoustic guitar chords come over the speakers and Elio turns around smiling.

“No one is unhappy to this song,” he insists, holding a hand out as the singer begins. 

Oliver takes his hand and stands, but once up he’s unsure of what to do. Elio saves him from himself, taking both his hands and moving his arms for him to the rhythm of the song as he sings along and moves his hips.

“I’ve seen you let loose before, get over yourself Oliver,” he insists with a light-hearted laugh, nothing of the leather-clad dark-eyed Elio of the club left in the one here.

Oliver can’t stop himself from smiling as Elio bounces, glad that he’s decided to be happy tonight – that he’s sober and awake enough to decide to be happy. His infectious grin makes Oliver feel like he can be a part of this and not just observe it fondly… it feels like he _wants_ him to be in this part of his life.

When the chorus hits Elio lets go of his hands and jumps around Oliver singing, and laughing as he turns in circles to keep him in sight.

It all feels light in a way Oliver finds he so rarely does these days. He loves seeing Elio like this, uninhibited and unabashed…

It makes him feel like his life isn’t set in dead, grey stone.

 _“I fucking love you, I think you’re pretty! I fucking love you all of the time!”_ Elio sings with a breathless laugh, trying to take the meaning out of the words so they sting less as he remembers hearing them when Oliver goes home to his beautiful family in the morning.

With the carefree lilt of the song, it’s effective.

There’s a funny little breakdown two thirds of the way through, during which Elio pours them a shot each, and Oliver doesn’t bother to try to stop him; he’s just too happy at Elio’s happiness, drinking in the smile on his face like the liquor in their clinking glasses.

What’s left of the night goes much the same way as Elio’s music shuffles. Oliver enjoys getting to hear what he listens to – especially given that much of it is not what he would expect, from either a master pianist or the writer of much of Lady Gaga’s music. 

He should have known Elio would always buck expectations.

They reheat a pizza left in the freezer from Elio’s recovery when Oliver learns that he hasn’t eaten yet and talk around the food with greasy smiles as the music continues into the evening.

Eventually as the night winds down they gravitate towards the bed, lying down facing one another to a quieter playlist of Elio’s as they softly murmur back and forth. The nightcap they shared seems to have made Elio very sleepy again.

Eventually they find themselves close enough to bring their mouths together, both staring down at one another’s lips in longing and hesitation. 

Slowly – _slowly_ – Oliver leans in, and presses his lips ever so gently to Elio’s. 

It’s soft, and it’s quiet and it’s over far too quickly but it electrifies Oliver’s soul. It’s everything he never thought he’d be allowed to have again without crushing guilt ruining it. 

Elio lets out the softest little breathless sound when they part, as he lets go of whatever it is that’s been holding him back and goes in for more, seeking out that which drove him to cross an ocean and alter the course of his life forever so many years ago…

They’ve already broken the rules now, he’s not going to leave it at just a brushing of the lips.

Desperate for more of Oliver, Elio climbs on top of him and cups the nape of his neck, pulling him in closer and deepening the kiss as he takes control. There’s no lack of enthusiasm from Oliver as they continue, each re-exploring places that they thought were forever lost to them…

The curves and plains of one another’s bodies are so familiar as they catalogue the changes, large and small, with impossible, unembarrassed freedom. Elio smiles breathlessly at how well they still fit together even with him having given his body to so many and Oliver only to one…

It brings him down to remember Oliver’s wife so he gently slows things to a halt to keep his looming guilt at bay as sleep begins to tug at him again as though sheltering him from reality for the night.

He moves to his side and pulls Oliver’s arms around him from behind, both happy and sad as he starts to drift off to the sound of Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Little Lies’.

“Sometimes I wish you’d tell me lies,” he mumbles sleepily. “Mostly I can accept it now, but sometimes…” he yawns deeply and sighs, relaxing completely into Oliver’s arms and letting it all go until morning. “Sometimes I wish you’d come over and lie to me, and tell me that you choose me…”

It takes Oliver a few seconds to process the tragedy of the words, because in his heart he’s _always_ chosen Elio. He’s never forgotten him or let him go and he’s never loved anyone else the same way; how could he not know that? 

_He doesn’t know that because you don’t tell him, because you didn’t choose him – because you’ve been a coward in your life,_ a brutal and truthful part of Oliver hisses. _It doesn't matter if you chose him in your heart, the fact is that you didn't choose him in your life._

“I do choose you, Elio,” he finally whispers into the quiet, desperate for him to know the truth…

But Elio has fallen asleep while he’s been thinking, his breathing deep, and steady.

Oliver sighs.

It’s okay. 

Everything difficult and complicated can wait until the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So close, but not yet 😈
> 
> Leave me a comment! I loves me the feedback! Put it in my veins ♥️♥️
> 
> I hope you're all doing well ♥️ I hope this made staying home a little less boring and I hope you liked the songs :'))


	13. Born This Way pt.5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio leaves before Oliver can talk to him and spends the day in a self-flagellating haze. Oliver tells Micol the truth and things are put into motion. Elio makes a decision under less than ideal circumstances...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How's the continued quarantine my friends? Had to drop something off to my friend's Plague House today and had to leave it at the door and wave at her from six feet away; it was very strange... this one might be a bit short and unedited but I want to get the angst out of the way so the boys can finally be where they're meant to be :')) (together, obviously)
> 
> I was listening to [ "Could I Leave You?"](https://youtu.be/2bkTAKWyB38?t=32) by Sondheim while I was thinking about this and I feel like it's Micol's divorce anthem lol - or more, what it would have been like if they'd stayed together all resentful for decades. Oliver's Sondheim anthem is definitely ["(Not) Getting Married Today"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zRsdEcybJL0) 😂
> 
> Anyway, Elio might be a little bit dramatic in this one but when is he not? Hope you like it! 😄

Elio is unsurprised to wake up with a headache in the morning.

What surprises him, as he blinks blearily into the morning, is the man sleeping beside him – not a stranger from a club, but _Oliver._

Used to having to piece together what happened the night before as quickly and quietly as possible Elio sits up carefully and hunches over the side of the bed, rubbing his eyes and thinking. 

His mind wakes up, into crushing dread, before his body does, staring out the window wide awake through puffy, strained eyes. He stands with muscles that need to be stretched but won’t be and brushes his teeth without having eaten anything yet.

 _Fuck, what did we do?_ he thinks, not meeting his own eyes in the mirror as he spits. _What did we ruin last night, why did I do that? I’m a slut, not a homewrecker…_

 _And even if I were a homewrecker I would never do that to Oliver’s kids… except I did; why didn’t he stop me? Why didn’t he stop_ himself _?_

Not casting another glance towards the bed Elio quickly exchanges his sweatpants for jeans and slips into his boots, grabbing his keys and silently slipping out the door before Oliver can stir or say a word.

He doesn’t want to talk yet.

A few blocks away it occurs to him that he probably should have brought his phone or at least his wallet, because the surprising resilience of the body when the mind is so rudely awakened after a big night only lasts so long… But it’s too late, and he’s not going to risk a conversation with Oliver.

Not yet at least.

As the weakness and shakiness of an unfed hangover set in over the next hour all Elio can do is walk and walk in a haze, confused and feeling about a million things he’s not going to be able to identify no matter how hard he tries.

Oliver calls Elio three times before calming down enough to realise that his phone is still sitting in the dock, vibrating quietly by the speakers.

At first he was calm waking up alone, figuring Elio was probably in the bathroom or out getting some food to have their talk over. But when he spied the open bathroom door and thirty minutes passed he started to panic, regretting not just telling Elio the situation last night.

He waits in the apartment until midday but he can only stay for so long before he needs to go home and talk to Micol, and he has no idea how long Elio will be out. 

He leaves a note on the table saying, _“I waited as long as I could – not sure where you are but I have something important to tell you, if you don’t remember,”_ and then he leaves, feeling sick with foreboding but knowing he can’t keep Micol waiting any longer.

_I’ve kept her waiting for months…_

Oliver feels like an unwanted guest in his own house as he gingerly turns the knob and stands in the doorway, waiting to hear the sound of Max and Gracie playing.

The sound never comes. Instead he’s met with the sound of turning pages and a cup meeting a saucer. 

It’s eerily still in the house.

Making his way to the kitchen Oliver finds Micol sitting at the dining table, calmly reading a book with a cup of coffee beside her. She doesn’t look up when he walks in.

“Where are the kids?” he asks nervously, breaking the silence.

“With friends,” is all that she says, still reading. 

Oliver’s heart is immediately in his throat – are they away so they can have a discussion, or is there… something else, happening?

“Did you have a nice night?” Micol asks evenly, finishing her paragraph before putting the bookmark between the pages and placing the book on the table, finally meeting his eyes. 

Oliver’s not sure what to make of the look on her face. He doesn’t know what to say – he had a beautiful night but he can’t exactly say that to begin a conversation with his wife about how their divorce is going to work.

She raises an eyebrow and crosses her arms, saying, “Well?”

Oliver shrugs unsurely. “I suppose,” is all he can come up with.

Micol nods and purses her lips before gesturing for him to sit on the other side of the table. When he’s sat down she clasps her hands in front of her and leans on the table, considering.

It’s silent for a few agonising moments before she takes a deep breath and begins.

“Did you— Do you—” she cuts herself off, sighing again and closing her eyes for a moment. “I have so many questions, I don’t even knows where to start,” she huffs, as though laughing at the absurdity of her life.

Oliver wants to tell her she can ask anything she wants but he doesn’t feel like it’s his place to speak, so he waits while she thinks and frowns.

Finally she raises her eyes to meet his gaze and begins.

“Do you love Elio?”

Oliver doesn’t even think about lying, but he’s quiet as he replies – he’d be proud of his love to anyone but her, any time but now.

“Yes.”

Micol nods.

“So you like men,” she says, as if processing the words as she speaks, though she’s been thinking them all night. “Why have you never…” She frowns. “I’m your wife, why have you never told me that?”

Oliver flounders for a moment, because truthfully he knows he could have told her and she wouldn’t have judged him. His family would never accept it – _won’t_ accept it, if Elio wants him – but he knows he could have said something to Micol.

“I don’t know,” he says simply. “I’ve never really told anyone except Elio… It was easier to just leave it,” he supposes, thinking on it for a moment before continuing. “I guess it didn’t feel like it mattered if I liked men, because I was married to you.”

Micol huffs a bitter laugh as though she can’t hold it in. 

“Well it apparently did matter,” she says, acid slipping into her tone before she takes a breath, and continues more calmly. 

“Do you _only_ like men?” she asks evenly. “I always thought you enjoyed it when we slept together until recently but…” she sighs with a brooding frown, meeting Oliver’s gaze once more as she asks, “Have you _ever_ wanted me?”

 _“Yes,”_ Oliver says immediately and definitely, desperate for her to know it’s true. “Yes, I’ve wanted you, I _swear._ The only reason I’ve been so reluctant recently is…”

Micol tilts her head and raises her eyebrows to coax the end of the sentence out of him.

“Is what?”

Oliver sighs and rubs his eyes, looking up at the ceiling before meeting her eyes and confessing.

“Because it felt like a betrayal to pretend, when my heart wasn’t in it. I respected you too much to lie to you more than I had to.”

Oliver means it and he means for it to help her feel better about it if it can, but Micol doesn’t want soothing, too hurt to let him give excuses – even if truthfully they’re not excuses, but reasons.

“You didn’t have to lie to me at all, Oliver,” she says sharply, her gaze hard and unwavering. “If you weren’t being a coward you would have told me the truth from the beginning.”

Oliver frowns and finally bites back a little. He knows he’s hurt her but it wasn’t an easy situation to navigate; he was doing the best he could – and he’ll own up to his mistakes – but it wasn’t a simple thing.

“So you’d prefer I just told you I wanted a divorce the _second_ I entertained the thought,” he says doubtfully. “You didn’t want any time to adjust, or for me to be sure it needed to happen, or to _try_ to make it work for Max and Grace?”

Micol’s eyes soften a little bit at the mention of the children, but they’re still far from kind as she continues, not addressing her husband’s rebuttal.

“When did you have doubts?” she asks calmly before continuing with a hint of emotion. “What was the moment when you decided you cared more about him than me?”

Oliver’s brows knit together. The last thing he wants is for Micol to think he doesn’t care – he does, deeply.

“It’s not about caring more or less, it’s about the _way_ I care; that’s what changed,” he insists, but that’s not what Micol is looking for.

 _“God,_ stop playing with words and just tell me the truth,” she snaps, her eyes unforgiving. “If you respect me like you say you do, you’ll tell me the whole truth even if it hurts,” she asserts. “When did things change for you?”

Oliver sits back in his seat and looks down at his hands in his lap, fiddling uselessly as he confesses.

“It was when I got back from visiting him in LA,” he says, ignoring the look of confirmed suspicion on Micol’s face as he continues. “I listened to a song he told me he wrote about me, and I realised that I’d made a mistake in leaving him. At the time I figured that was just something for me to live with, because I’d made my choices and everything was already set in stone…” Oliver trails off, still not meeting Micol’s eyes. 

He lets the first part of his answer sit in the air for a moment waiting until he sees Micol gesture for him to keep going to speak again. He takes a deep breath and continues, sharing for the first time something he’s held so strangely private since it happened.

“It was when I took him to the hospital, and I saw him lying on the operating table looking so small, and empty – like a dead body,” he explains, looking up for a moment. “That was when I realised that the only thing scarier to me than the danger of a divorce was the guarantee of living and dying without him. That was when I realised I couldn’t stay, even if I felt like I should… Even if he didn’t want me anymore when it was all said and done, it wasn’t fair to anyone to stay.”

Finally Oliver looks up to study Micol’s reaction, but he can’t read the myriad of micro-expressions crossing her face; he can’t figure out what she’s thinking or feeling at all as he waits silently.

At first a part of Micol wants to yell _bullshit_ and insist that his love for this skinny Italian kid couldn’t possibly rival his love for his family and for the life he’s built, and how _dare_ he say something like that…

But the truth is that she can hear it in his voice that he does love Elio; in a way most people will never love anyone. In a way he never loved her, even when he truly did love her once upon a time… 

In a way she’s never loved him either, or anyone else.

She knows that Oliver is a good person and a good father – a coward in some things perhaps, but ultimately someone who does what he thinks he _should_ do more than what he wants, or _needs_ to do, to a fault…

She knows he wouldn’t put them through this if it weren’t in the name of something he couldn’t live without.

It makes her angry for a moment, because despite not wanting to go back to trying anymore, a part of her still wishes she was one of those things he couldn’t live without – she deserves to be loved by a husband who can’t do without her, just like anyone else… Why doesn’t she have that from him?

 _… I suppose I know that I could live well enough without him as well though,_ she admits to herself after a moment, easing the hurt just a little.

_I could sleep apart from him tomorrow and I wouldn’t be lonely in my bed – how could I miss having someone who didn’t want me in the bed next to me?_

_How can I miss someone who hasn’t truly been here in months?_

It takes it out of her to realise these things, and feel her anger slip away. 

She’s sure it’ll return but… truthfully, she’s relieved. She doesn’t want to fight with Oliver – she doesn’t want to fight _for_ Oliver. 

_Marriage ended,_ she thinks dispassionately. _Not with a bang, but a whimper._

It could have worked, and in another world where Oliver never saw Elio again it probably _would_ have worked and they would have been happy together… but she’s tired of fighting for the attentions of someone who is no longer capable of making her feel loved in the way she knows she deserves to be loved.

She just wants to know one thing.

Raising her head and squaring her shoulders Micol asks very evenly.

“Did you ever cheat on me with him?"

“No,” Oliver says without hesitation.

“With anyone else?”

“No.”

With the certainty in Oliver’s voice Micol’s last reservations and traces of anger slip away, at least for now.

“Okay,” she accepts, rubbing her eyes and beginning thinking about what they need to do now. “Okay, um… the kids.”

Oliver nods, glad to be onto more practical discussion for now. 

“When do we tell them?” he asks, content for her to lead.

“I don’t know. Not yet. Probably when things are close to the end. We need to call a lawyer. And get documents together. Are you going to stay here?” Micol says rapid fire, trying to work out the logistics of how it’s all going to work over time. Finances, ownership of the apartment, custody of the children, changing her last name, even…

_So many things are going to change…_

“Do… you want me to stay here?” Oliver asks tentatively, interrupting her thoughts.

Micol sighs again and levels with him.

“Look, I’m not…” she pauses to consider. “I’m not angry with you, exactly. I can’t guarantee I won’t be angry tomorrow, or the next day, or next week, and I’m probably going to be hurt for a long time… But I’m not kicking you out of your home, and I’m not going to try to take anything of yours from you, and I’m not going to try to separate you from the kids. That’s not what this is about.”

_I’m not going to try to separate you from the kids._

Oliver wonders if Micol can feel his crushing relief in the air as his worst fear is assuaged. His shoulders slump as he lets out all the breath in his chest and closes his eyes, breathing in deeply before meeting her gaze and speaking with blinding earnestness.

 _“Thank you,”_ he says, hoping she hears what he can’t put into words.

She does hear it, but she doesn’t say a word as she stands, heading to the shower to wash herself of the conversation and hopefully emerge feeling new. 

Oliver takes a moment to rest his forehead on his folded arms taking deep breaths and adjusting to his new reality, contemplating the road ahead.

 _I just wish Elio would call,_ he finally thinks when the sun starts to shift to lengthen the shadows in the room, feeling helpless all over again.

Almost in a trance Elio wanders about the city until dark, ignoring his hunger and dizziness entirely as he thinks both of the night before and of nothing at all. 

Eventually he finds himself at Rosie’s, unsure of exactly the route he took to get there. He sits down at the bar and tells them to pour him a double and put it on his tab, downing it in one and ordering another as he slips into crisis in his suddenly unchanging settings.

 _It was just one kiss,_ part of him insists, instantly shot down by another, more dominant part as a mental skirmish begins.

 _But you crossed a line last night; an_ important _one. One you swore you’d never cross with Oliver because you knew it would wreck him._

_…Am I really that selfish?_

_Apparently. The flirting, cuddling up on the couch, the unspoken knowledge that you both still want each other; that was one thing… Getting naked in front of him, lying in bed with him, and_ climbing on top of him in a bed to deepen a kiss, _is something else altogether, Elio…_

_It felt so right though… How could it not?_

_Does it matter how it felt? It_ wasn’t _right. It wasn’t some fun triste at a club, it was Oliver. You helped Oliver cheat on his wife, with two children at home. What do you want, for him to leave her? Abandon his children? Have_ you _as a stepfather to two kids? You can't even remember where you left your gag half the time. All you’ve done is complicate things._

 _Fuck. Maybe I’m_ not _still a good person even though I go out and fuck a lot… Maybe I_ have _corrupted myself in ways that actually matter…_

_Maybe._

His spiral is interrupted by a hand on his shoulder a few drinks in.

"Jesus, you look like shit," Rosie says with a frown as she takes him in - unwashed, dehydrated, red-eyed. "What the fuck happened?"

At first Elio just lowers his head and takes a deep breath. He's surprised by how thick his voice is when he finally speaks.

"I did something bad, Rose," he manages, causing her frown to deepen, her gaze very serious.

She sits down on the stool next to him and studies him for a moment.

"...What did you do, Elio?" she asks in a low, calm voice.

Hearing her call him that, instead of some nickname only makes it worse.

"Oliver and I," he chokes out. "Last night, we..."

He doesn't finish the sentence, allowing her to deduce the nature of his confession.

"Oh Elly-boy," Rosie sighs.

She studies him for what seems like a long time, taking in his rumpled clothes and dishevelled hair and the drink in front of him - even having just come in, it’s obvious to her that it’s not the first or even the third.

"It's gonna be okay, in the end,” she reassures after a time. “...But this is no way to get there," she says, gesturing to the drink in front of him.

Elio groans through his teariness and rubs his temples, wishing the whole world would just go away and let him feel like a piece of shit. Thankfully Rosie gives him a second to just be.

 _It's not going to be okay in the end,_ he thinks in the quiet. _I'm always going to have done this._

_And how am I supposed to go back now? It was hard enough the first time I had to move on, it was hard enough dealing with it again in LA; how the fuck am I supposed to do it now with the memory of Oliver telling me he loves me fresh in my head; with the memory of his lips still dancing so perfectly with mine…_

_I need to do something, something needs to change,_ he concludes desolately, swallowing the rest of his drink. 

_I can’t be in his life like I have been with that line crossed, it’ll ruin me… more than it already has,_ he thinks with guilt as he recalls the innocence of their time together at the villa, and how tainted last night feels to him. 

_Maybe love that pure isn’t real… Or maybe it is, but I can’t be pure like that and all I’m doing being around him is tempting him and ruining him and making him do things he’d never do otherwise… If I feel this bad about it, how is he feeling right now?_

Something needs to shift; Oliver needs to choose which life he’s going to have and Elio knows which one it’s going to be. The same one it’s always been before.

Elio lifts his head to order his - fifth? Sixth? - drink, but Rosie pulls his hand down.

"No, baby," she says gently, trying to catch his eye as his head lowers again in defeat. "No more... you've had enough."

The sympathy in her voice makes Elio want to cry, because he knows he doesn't deserve it.

"Okay," he says, standing shakily - the combination of alcohol, hangover, and lack of food is really hitting him.

"Where are you going?" Rosie asks, steadying him with a hand on his arm. "You going home?"

"Sure," Elio says, just trying to get away as quickly as possible.

Rosie sighs, hating to see him this way, but knowing she can't help him feel any better tonight.

"Okay, let me get you a cab," she says, steering him outside.

"No, it's fine. I'll walk," Elio protests.

"You are not walking home like this," Rosie asserts, not taking no for an answer.

Once again her caring only makes Elio feel worse.

Soon he's in the cab with Rosie giving his address as he tries to gauge how likely it is that his stomach will reject the alcohol he's consumed on an empty stomach, on the short ride home. He thinks he's in the clear, but he can't help but feel it would be in keeping with his character tonight...

"It's gonna be okay," Rosie says with certainty, taking in his despondent expression as she leans on the door.

Elio doesn't reply. Eventually she sighs and pats him on the cheek, before closing the door and sending him on his way.

On the short ride home the urgency he felt at the bar, to _do something_ only builds, to a peak. He doesn't know where to go except _away_ from everything here.

When he gets inside his apartment he doesn’t even look at the table – doesn’t see Oliver’s note. He just books himself a flight to somewhere in Europe far from Oliver, packs his clothes, and leaves with his suitcase, his laptop, his keys, phone and wallet, locking the door behind him. 

Before he asks to go to the airport Elio gives the taxi driver another address, unsure if it’s for the chance to get one last look for what might be a long time, or if it’s just to self-flagellate. 

Maybe a bit of both.

Either way, looking up through the glass of the door it’s like something out of some disgustingly wholesome home décor advertisement in Oliver’s family’s apartment. 

Oliver is taking turns lifting his children up into the air, smiling ear to ear and giving the child Elio assumes is Grace kisses as she squirms away laughing, before putting her down to lift Max. 

The scene is everything Elio isn’t.

This is the life Oliver chose, and last night Elio pulled him into a different one. 

He feels like the other woman sitting there, skulking around on the darkened street below while the family above live in the light. If Oliver just had a wife maybe he wouldn’t feel like this, but the thought of ruining those two kids’ stability… the idea of someone swooping into Elio’s life to steal _his_ father from _him_ when he was a child…

He can’t be calm about this, or not react. He needs to get away to think clearly about it, just like with Reid.

Finally turning his face away Elio asks for the driver to take him to JFK and says nothing else the whole way, tipping extravagantly for the driver’s understanding, or possibly just his apathy. He doesn’t much care which.

He checks in at the airport and heads to the first place that will serve him both food and alcohol, maintaining his intoxication. He sips more slowly than at Rosie’s; in an effort not to be too drunk to be allowed on the plane, rather than because he knows it’s probably not a good idea for him to be drinking right now.

He’s still pretty drunk when his phone buzzes on the table, showing Oliver’s name. Sighing, Elio sends it to voicemail and resumes his sullen staring. 

But it begins buzzing again almost immediately after, ringing out and then buzzing again, and again. He groans and places his drink down, his drunken mind telling him to just get it over with.

“What?” he says, too tired to care how it sounds.

“Elio?” Oliver replies, sounding surprised at his harshness. “You took off before I woke up, I’ve been calling you all day – where have you been?”

Elio snorts at Oliver’s tone and throws a fry into his mouth. 

_Is he really just going to pretend everything is cool?_

“Around,” is all he says, chewing.

“…Where are you?” Oliver asks uncertainly, wary of his shortness and already beginning to suspect that Elio may be less than sober again.

“Airport.”

Oliver’s eyes widen as his brow furrows and he grips his phone tighter in his hand, speaking with urgency. 

“What? Why are you at the airport? Where are you going? Did something happen?”

Elio stirs his drink and curls his lip, unsure if he’s right to be angry with Oliver but not knowing what else to do with his irritation and self-contempt.

“Yeah, something fuckin’ happened,” he snorts, plainly annoyed. “Were you not there las’night when my tongue was down y’rthroat? Or when your wedding-ringed hand was under my fuckin’shirt? Fuckin’ family values right there.”

“Elio—” Oliver sighs, cutting himself off. A lot just came across but he needs to sort out the more urgent part first. “Why are you at the airport?”

“’Cause I am going to…” Elio trails off to check his ticket, having already forgotten. “Germany.”

Oliver takes a second to process as he tries to figure out how to respond.

“…Why are you going to Germany?”

“Why d’you _think?”_ Elio replies sharply, angry that Oliver doesn’t seem to feel any guilt for what they did while he’s been punishing himself all day and the kids aren’t even his. “Because I’m rich as piss and can ship myself off t’Europe whenever I make out witha married guy with two kids.”

“Elio I’m not married,” Oliver hisses insistently, hoping his children won’t overhear him in his study.

Elio makes a face, glaring as though Oliver is there in front of him as he replies.

“What the fuck are you talking about? Of course you’re married,” he says with venom that stops his slurring. His brain isn’t computing how Oliver’s words could be true with Oliver’s marriage having been such a roadblock for so long, and such a fixture in his restless thoughts today.

“…Well I _am_ married,” Oliver concedes, immediately rushing onwards. “But I won’t be very soon, I swear we’re separated.”

Elio pauses, finally allowing the thought to sink in as it’s spelled out for him.

“You… You’re gonna divorce her?” he asks quietly, dazed and trying to keep the hope out of his voice and out of his heart.

“Yes,” Oliver sighs with relief, glad Elio is listening to him. “We talked about it this morning, we’ve already called a lawyer,” he swears.

Elio’s eyes still well up a little bit, though he’s trying to keep it together in public. 

“You only decided this morning?” he asks tearfully, the fall back into his guilt worse for the height of his hope. 

_Oliver’s wife was still waiting for him at home last night when I had my hands all over him… Was last night the last straw? I shouldn’t have called him…_

As he takes another sip Elio knows the alcohol is probably just heightening his emotions, but he’s not ready to sort anything out logically yet anyway.

 _“No, Elio,”_ Oliver pleads, desperate for him to understand. “We decided last night before I left and then we talked about it this morning – we didn’t do anything bad, or wrong last night, I swear. I just didn’t want to tell you because I knew we’d have to talk and I didn’t want to shatter how beautiful the night was.”

Elio sniffs, putting a hand to his head – he would never have been faced with the choice, faced with disappointment in himself at knowing what he chose, if Oliver had just told him what he’d decided before they went to bed.

“I wish you’d told me,” he says miserably, feeling vulnerable and weak as he brings his free hand to his head. “I’ve been feeling so bad about it.”

“I’m so sorry,” Oliver says, his earnestness clear in his voice, hating hearing Elio’s tearfulness. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you but you didn’t do anything wrong last night, I _swear_ we were broken up.”

“Yeah but _I_ didn’t know that,” Elio insists wretchedly. _“I_ still made th’choice thinking you weren’t.” 

He’s trying his best to keep it all inside so he doesn’t sob in public – the alcohol is really not helping him there, but he can’t think clearly about any of it right now.

He finishes his drink just for something to do other than tremble stupidly, and right as he swallows the last sip the call for his flight goes out over the speakers.

“I have t’go, Oliver,” he says with a wobbling voice. “They’re calling my flight.”

“Elio, please don’t run away, please just come back so we can talk,” Oliver implores, desperation in his voice. “I can hear that you’ve been drinking, you need to just calm down and _think_ about this.”

“No, I just…” Elio takes a shaky breath, his heart not trusting Oliver to guide him right now. “I needtime t’be able t’think, I need t’go away forawhile n’think, like las’time.”

“This doesn’t make any sense, why do you need to go to—”

“I have t’go, Oliver. I’ll… I’ll talk t’you when’m there.”

“Elio where are you even _go—”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the time when Elio drinks it's for shits and giggles... not this time tho. Bub 😢
> 
> The Born This Way section is possibly going to be longer, I think... For now Elio needs some time to think and Oliver needs to get his divorce. I'm excited for the fun bits I'm going to get to write when they're together, but the fic is governed by what I hear in the songs on the albums ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Hope everyone is still doing well! Also btw I'm theuniversaline on tumblr - it's not a cmbyn or Timmy blog but that's where I'm at :')
> 
> Thoughts? Opinions? Make my day, leave me a comment ♥️😄♥️


	14. Born This Way pt.6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio does his best to forget what's shaken him up but eventually it all comes back and he knows he needs to think clearly...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, hope you're doing well! This one really just didn't want to happen so it feels a bit off to me, but eh I got there in the end lol
> 
> Elio makes a few stupid decisions here (or one weeks-long stupid decision, really) but once he decides to stop doing that it can really only go uphill :'D
> 
> I hope you like it! ♥️♥️

When Elio is awoken by a flight attendant at the end of the journey with a headache building as he sobers up, he just heads to his hotel and crashes, choosing to sleep through his hangover.

He’s disoriented and unsure of what exactly his plan is, so it seems like the best move in the moment.

When he awakens again at 4pm he showers, raids the minibar, and immediately heads out for the night, steadfastly refusing to try to think about anything not within ten feet of him – he’s pretty sure if he thinks about the situation he left behind he’ll have to face that he’s making strange decisions and should probably stop, so he simply makes worse decisions to cover that up for another hour, minute, second…

It’s not unlike LA-Elio on steroids; he slips right back into the mindset with no problem…

It just feels like such a seismic shift in the potential course of his life deserves a committed reaction, if not a rational one.

He goes home with a man who gives him a suggestive smile and a happy pill and forgets about everything outside the room they’re in as they go on into the night, fuelled by a need to escape and by a re-up on the unknown upper when he starts to fade relatively early on – nothing has changed in the last day, he still gets tired more easily than he’s used to.

When he awakens, hungover and confused again, he takes the man’s thickly accented offer of a coffee and says nothing about the distinct sharpness of the whisky in it, appreciating the courteous gesture as reality slips a little further away again with each sip. 

It doesn’t feel quite right, but he does it anyway, just to do something.

He might’ve acknowledged that he was overreacting and gone home to deal with his emotions if they hadn’t immediately gotten day drunk and then continued on into the night again…

But they did, and so he didn’t.

It feels like his usual rules and standards don’t apply in Berlin – after the weeks of quiet and calm after the surgery, the disaster of his first night back out, and then the haze of the following day it feels like there’s a clear line between his healthy partying and this, so he doesn’t hold himself back from a lot of things he usually would.

At some point it’s just inertia, just a compulsion to keep going until something stops him. 

Elio feels very detached from his life while he’s in Germany.

He doesn’t feel like himself… 

He doesn’t feel like anyone. Just a vessel for giving and receiving pleasure, just a body to tie up, just a mouth to fuck… just a throat that swallows and an ass that sways to the beat.

It’s simple and easy to give in, when everything important on the periphery of his thoughts seems complicated and difficult.

Every time he checks his phone and sees that someone has called him again his mind just says _‘not now’_ and he texts them that he just needs time to think, and to leave him alone, and then he goes out again and by the time it’s morning he just needs to get rid of his headache again.

He doesn’t mean to not deal with anything for a week, he just never wants to deal with it at any given moment and then a week has passed. And then it feels like he’s fucked up too badly to deal with it in his current state and then a second week passes in much the same way.

At this point he knows he’ll probably be dealing much more with the fallout of his stupid reaction than the actual problem, but the longer he leaves it the bigger the mess he has to clean up is the longer he leaves it…

Two weeks to the day he left he’s in his hotel room with a backpacker couple whose names he can’t remember, drunk out of his mind.

He’s a little too drunk and a little too tired to bother reaching to grab the bottle on the other side of the bed, so he just lies there feeling slightly miserable while the other two dance to the music over the speakers he bought a week into his stay.

Their happy laughter just serves to make him feel worse as his mood tanks.

Staring woozily up at the ceiling the dance track they’re playing repeats two lines over and over, driving them into his malleable, impressionable, drunk mind.

 _“Does it make you feel good?_  
_Does it make you feel right?_  
_Does it make you feel good?_  
_Does it make you feel right?_

 _Does it make you feel good?_  
_Does it make you feel right?_  
_Does it make you feel good?_  
_Does it make you feel right?”_

Elio continues to stare up at the ceiling as his mind wanders, tuning out the song and the laughter of his night’s companions as he considers the singer’s questions.

 _Hmm… no. I don’t feel good,_ he thinks distantly, observingly; as though he’s commenting on the weather and not emotions he’s currently experiencing first hand. 

_I don’t feel right at all either,_ he muses, raising eyebrows above half-shut eyes and running a hand absentmindedly over the sheets around him. 

_What makes me feel good,_ he wonders, mentally compiling a list.

_Dancing at Fluffy’s… Laughing with Stef while we cook… Watching that stupid real estate show wrapped up in a blanket… Watching kids like Alex and his friends go off to something I wrote… Oliver…_

_Just, Oliver._

_Oliver makes me feel good,_ he thinks.

 _Oliver makes me feel_ really _good…_

_And Oliver definitely makes me feel right, nothing feels more right than being with Oliver…_

Something about the rolling positivity of the song as it lances the fog around Elio’s brain and floods his senses once more makes him feel like anything is possible… Like if he wants to he can just go home to New York tonight and sleep in Oliver’s bed, and when he wakes up they’ll find a way to make it all work, and everyone will be okay, and the past two weeks won’t even matter…

He closes his eyes and pictures it, pictures himself showing up on Oliver’s doorstep and saying he’s sorry and he knows he’s been stupid but can it just not matter for a few hours? And Oliver would say _of course_ and pull him in and he’d be in his arms before he could say another word, and then he would be where he’s needed to be since he was seventeen and nothing else would matter until the morning came…

 _I said I wanted time to think but I haven’t been thinking about it at all,_ Elio recognises with a frowning sigh, blinking up at the ceiling as a few stray tears he didn’t know were welling escape. He curls up on his side as the thoughts continue.

_I need to figure it out and go back to Oliver before he decides he doesn’t even want me anymore, if he hasn’t already. This has been so stupid… Maybe such a big change deserved a big reaction but this one was stupid…_

_If I hadn’t reacted so stupidly maybe he never would have seen that it probably won’t work – that I’m not mature or child-friendly enough or respectable enough for him…_

_He’s definitely going to see it now,_ he thinks, his drunken insecurity getting the best of him.

Slowly, Elio sits up and waits for the dizziness to pass before he stands. He finds it difficult to see through his tears but he does his best to avoid his distracted guests as he moves. He staggers over to the kitchen where he left his phone – ‘staggers’ is really the only word for what he does – and slides down to the floor leaning against the cabinets, blearily typing in his passcode and looking through his contacts for Stefani’s name.

It rings eight times before she answers, immediately worried.

“Elio? Where have you been?” she asks. “Oliver told me what happened.”

Elio takes a deep, shaky breath and prepares himself to speak, mustering mental strength and trying to connect his brain to his mouth.

“’Min Berlin,” he manages to get out.

“Why are you in Berlin?” she asks, confused before becoming heated. “You haven’t answered my calls for two weeks Elio, what the fuck?”

Elio knits his brows together and wipes another wave of tears making its way down his face at her anger.

“’Msorry,” he burbles unhappily, his voice thick. “Dunno what’appened, ‘mreally sorry.”

Stefani sighs, torn between her worry and her ire.

“Are you okay?” she finally settles on, business-like. “Are you safe?”

“’M’safe. Hotel…” he slurs, wiping his nose and pulling his knees to his chest. He curls up as small as he can and hugs his legs tightly with the hand not holding the phone to his ear.

“Which hotel? I need you to tell me which hotel, I’ll come to get you.”

Elio’s bottom lip wobbles, crushed by his best friend’s caring even after two weeks of virtual silence that she did nothing to deserve. 

“Don’come,” he breathes, trying and failing to hold in his welling tears of gratitude. “I’ll stop, ’mgonna stop now.”

Stefani just sighs, thinking. 

She waits for a long time before she speaks, much more calmly and gently than she has been.

“Why do you do this with him?” she asks, earnest and caring. “No one else does this to you… You were doing _so well,_ why did you just go off like that? I thought you would be _happy_ if he ever told you he was leaving his wife, why did you leave like that?”

_Good fucking question._

“I… I dunno,” Elio slurs truthfully, putting a hand to his forehead and repeating more clearly through his tears, “I don’t know… It was jus’… big, it… _Change,"_ he gasps. "I jus’freakedout. It jus’appened, I dunno…”

Elio doesn’t quite realise how clearly his freely flowing tears can be heard in his voice until Stef soothes him, unhappy with his decisions but hating to hear him upset.

“Hey, don’t cry baby,” she pacifies. “It’s going to be okay. Just… call him when you’re sober and talk to him. He still just wants to hear your voice, from what he’s said to me.”

Elio frowns, shame running through him as he buries his face again. He made them worry enough to call each other.

“You’ve b’ntalking?”

“Yeah, we’ve been talking hon… We’ve been worried about you. We _are_ worried about you,” she says, entreating.

“Didn’t mean t’make you worry, I jus’…”

Elio closes his throat, trying to force his building emotions to quiet, but it only makes it worse.

“’Ve b’nso stupid,” he cries, his voice wet as he shoves the heel of his hand into his eyes. “He’s not gunna wanna talk t’me, he’s fin’ly gunna see that’m jus’a stupid kid an’ he won’want me anymore an’—"

“Elio, you need to just go to bed,” Stefani snaps with a hard tone, brooking no argument. 

She refuses to baby him on this – he doesn’t need babying, he needs a verbal bitch slap. Stefani isn’t afraid of hurting him in his vulnerable state; he’s already hurting tonight, he just needs to hurt _productively._

“I _know_ you – you’re just crying because you’re drunk,” she continues exasperatedly. “It’s a _good_ thing that Oliver is leaving someone he’s not in love with. It’s a big change and I know that’s been throwing you off but it’s _good,_ and the fact is there’s no universe where he doesn’t want to be with you. You _have_ been really stupid these past two weeks and if I knew where you were I would have come to literally slap some sense into you… but it _was_ kind of a big bomb to drop, and it’s only been two weeks – it’s not unfixable,” she implores factually. “…You just need to sober up and call him. You just need to start _thinking_ about it, instead of trying _not_ to think at all, which I know is what you’ve been doing.”

Over the course of Stefani’s speech Elio took deep breaths, closing his eyes and listening intently. 

She was right – he doesn’t need someone feeding into his drunken drama. He needs the truth, which is a patchwork of both forgiving and unforgiving facts.

Even through his intoxication, by the time Stefani has finished speaking Elio can see that while the issue may be complex, what he needs to do to figure out his next step with Oliver is very simple. 

He needs to spend as long as he needs processing it with his head on straight, and then he needs to go home and act on whatever it is he decides.

That’s it. 

After that it might get complicated and messy, but until then it’s a clear path forward.

He only realises how long he’s been slowly thinking through it all in silence when Stef speaks again – he can hear the raised eyebrow in her voice.

“Are you quiet because you’re thinking a lot about what I just said or because you zoned out halfway through?” she asks. “…Or because you’ve passed out in a pool of piss.”

Elio huffs a little laugh, as always appreciating the way Stef can have a sense of humour about almost anything – she’s been through too much not to.

“’S’the firs’one,” he says with the tears gone from his voice as he wipes his face dry – though you can still hear that he’s cried, with his stuffy nose.

 _The sound of a stuffy nose as someone laughs after crying is like the sound of birds coming out after a storm,_ he thinks, momentarily distracted. 

“Good,” Stefani says, interrupting his thoughts again. “Keep thinking. Or just do what I said and go to bed – go forth and get your shit together.”

“I had my shit together f’r _months_ b’fore now…” Elio grumbles, but he does stand. 

“Drink some water,” Stefani instructs, ignoring him, relaxed now that she’s sure she’s gotten through to her friend.

“Mhm,” Elio agrees, but he only gets about half a glass down before he gives up, stumbling back over to the bed. 

When he’s lying under the covers he murmurs one last thing, hoping she can hear it over the music.

“Please d’n’tell Oliver what’ve b’ndoing… ’ve b’nstupid.”

Stefani sighs.

“I’m not going to tell him bub,” she placates. “I don’t even _know_ what you’ve been up to, though I can guess… Just go to sleep; the sooner you sleep the sooner you can get past the bad decisions and move forward.”

The backpackers are still playing their music very loudly as he hangs up – hence why they didn’t hear him crying in the kitchen and why he’ll probably get in some kind of trouble for being a nuisance for his neighbours in the hotel in the morning… He’s just too drunk and too tired for it to bother him as he pulls the covers over his head and succumbs to the pull of sleep

_There’s no universe where he doesn’t want to be with you, it’s not unfixable, he just wants to hear your voice, there’s no universe where he doesn’t want to be with you, it’s not unfixable, he just wants to hear your voice, there’s no universe—_

The next morning Elio wakes up monumentally hungover, though not that much more than he has been many other days in Berlin. 

He decides to move on from the city – finally – gathering his things and feeling intensely grateful that the backpackers left either in the night or sometime before he woke up. 

He makes a plan to travel through Italy, and then on to France, and then to Spain. He’ll decide where to go from there, but… with any luck, it’ll be home to New York, having sorted out what he’s going to do.

 _I have all of this money and I’ve never used it to travel. People without money_ want _money to live better lives, and then to travel… why have I never bothered to do that?_

Before boarding the plane he calls Oliver, knowing there’s no time difference between New York and Berlin and that Oliver will probably have been up for hours and hours by now.

“Elio?” he asks breathlessly, as though he ran for his phone and answered before he could check the caller ID.

 _How many times has he done that since I left him hanging,_ Elio wonders with shame.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he says, his humility coming through clearly in his quiet voice. “I’m sor—”

“Where are you? Are you okay?”

Elio wants to cry at the living concern in Oliver’s voice, matching Stefani’s the night before, even after one measly text followed by two weeks of dead silence.

_Maybe he really does still want me…_

“I’m okay,” he says – true enough now. “I’m in Berlin but I’m about to fly to Milan.”

There’s silence on the line for a few moments.

“Are… are you going to see your parents?”

Elio shakes his head though Oliver can’t see it.

“No, I…” Elio sighs heavily, considering his next words. 

“I think I need to be by myself and with a clear head to think it through,” he explains. “I wasn’t clear-headed when I left for Germany, I wasn’t clear-headed when I decided to stay in LA for as long as I did, and I wasn’t clear-headed at all these past two weeks… Every bad decision I’ve ever made has been because I didn’t think properly and… I want to make _good_ decisions about us,” he finishes earnestly.

Elio knows he needs to lay everything out honestly to show Oliver that his actions recently aren’t him as he _truly_ is – not who he wants to be or who he would be with him.

Oliver is thinking. 

He doesn’t like the idea of Elio drifting around Europe with all his money looking to feel good again… He doesn’t like all the ways something like that could go wrong, how many people could take advantage of him, how his appetites and passions could turn a situation serious with a short string of bad decisions…

But if his intention is to think clearly about things, then… Oliver has to trust that he’s going to do that.

If Elio takes some time to truly think clearly and decide how he feels, that can only be a good thing in the long run, surely…

During Oliver’s thoughtful silence Elio can’t help but picture the million ways he might be reacting to his words – anger, frustration, sadness, regret, disappointment, doubt…

But it’s none of those things in his voice when he speaks.

“I think that’s probably a good idea,” he finally says, evenly but truthfully. “I won’t pretend I don’t know what I want you to decide, but—” Oliver cuts himself off as though a thought has occurred to him, frowning. “You do know what I want, right? We didn’t talk about it, but you know what I’m asking, don’t you?”

Elio swallows.

“I—I think so?” he says uncertainly. Logically he knows it’s clear what Oliver wants, but with his behaviour these past two weeks he needs to hear it straight, doubt having taken root in his heart.

Oliver pulls the roots out with only a few words, laying out exactly what he wants.

“I want you,” he says. “I want us. I want to be with you; whatever that looks like now.”

Elio lets out a deep breath and pushes down the conflicting hope and fear those words conjure in him. 

Suddenly aware of the deep aching in his chest he swallows and speaks very honestly.

“…I miss you,” he says simply. 

It sounds almost like a question. 

Oliver breathes a loud sigh of relief, reassured, if not convinced that he knows exactly what Elio will ultimately decide.

“I miss you too,” he says longingly, bare and honest. “Don’t come home before you’re ready but… _fuck_ I miss you.”

Elio smiles, a little watery.

“Got you to swear,” he laughs, choked, taking a strengthening moment to keep his feet on the ground – he still needs to think about it all. If he lets his thoughts run wild now he’ll end up in Oliver’s arms before he’s thought about any of it and they’ll wind up moving forward without the new foundation they need.

Actions without resolved thought behind them can only ring false and taint things with them…

They deserve a better chance than that – he needs to return absolutely certain of what he wants.

“You’re rubbing off on me,” Oliver replies simply with a smile in his voice, sounding suspiciously watery himself.

And then Elio’s flight number is called, and he can’t tell if he’s grateful or angry about it.

Either way he just needs to get on the plane and go, his path set out before him.

“They’re calling my flight,” he says, echoing his drunken words two weeks before. 

The echo isn’t lost on Oliver but without the slurring the sting is dulled.

“Okay,” he says warmly, stamping out his melancholy with a smile – at least it shows they’re moving forwards and not backwards. “When will I talk to you again?”

Elio considers for a moment, biting his bottom lip.

“I don’t know,” he says truthfully. “I’ll call you when I’m back in New York?”

“Okay. I—” Oliver starts, almost blurting out _I love you._ “…I’ll talk to you then,” he settles on, uncertainty clear in his voice.

“Yeah, we’ll talk then,” Elio says, with his tone completely unreadable.

And then he’s gone.

He thinks about it all over the next few weeks.

As he passes through ancient cities and studies monuments and great works of art, he thinks about their history, but also his own. 

He thinks about his summer with Oliver. He thinks about who he was before and after, how it shaped him, and his behaviour, and his choices; how ultimately it led to all of the best and worst experiences of his life…

He explores his hopes for having that again, but also his doubt that it’s even possible anymore with their lives so many worlds apart in so many ways… 

He considers calling his father for advice for a moment, but instead imagines what the wise man might say in his head, counselling himself.

 _Maybe it won’t work out,_ he ponders broodingly over a coffee in Milan. _Maybe it will turn out that our lives are still incompatible even if we still work together, as people… Maybe it’ll turn out that we aren’t even compatible as more than friends anymore after all…_

 _…But if we never try, we’ll never find out,_ he concludes.

_Maybe trying will ruin what we’ve had thus far, tarnish our memories of the summer, destroy the illusion of ‘what if’ that’s made it all seem at the very least tragically beautiful on some level for so long…_

_But at least we’ll know it didn’t work out. We won’t be wondering for the rest of our lives._

Deep down Elio knew that he would never be the one to turn Oliver down. It was never truly an option for him to say no if Oliver held out his hand and asked to live his life with him… He just needed a moment to adjust.

He _still_ just needs a moment to adjust, and fully consider all the problems they might encounter along the way as he travels – he still needs to get through all the things he never allowed himself to consider before because it was all just impossible and painful to think about.

He’s not about to return to Oliver with anything denied or held back, so he writes a song called ‘Bloody Mary’ in Rome when he’s feeling bitter about being left behind so long ago. He writes a song called ‘Judas’ in which Oliver is somehow both Jesus and Judas when he visits Notre Dam conflicted about the role Oliver has played in his life… In Madrid he writes a song called ‘You and I’ once he’s let all of that go and decided that he doesn’t care about the past if he can have a chance at a real _future_ with Oliver.

He knows Stef will love it and want to alter it to be about her own ‘Oliver’ left behind in Nebraska, because truly, it’s perfect for them, but he’s okay with that. 

He’s not sure he’d want to have something with so many details about his and Oliver's summer out there anyway.

When he makes it to Spain Elio looks rationally at his decision to kiss Oliver believing it was cheating, acknowledging that he’d never do it with anyone but Oliver or if Oliver hadn’t done it first. 

Oliver is always his exception, and he’s not a bad person for it.

He forgives himself for freaking out and running away even though he knows he’s still going to apologise for it when he sees Oliver again. 

It was a stupid reaction, but it was to a life altering change to do with someone he cares deeply for.

He allows himself to begin imagining how they’re going to make it work, because he’s finally ready to admit just how much he wants it, even though it might wreck him if it doesn’t work when they try…

It’s going to be scary and they could fail, but what’s worth doing that isn’t like that?

He has no illusions about how hard it could be; how Oliver’s kids complicate things, how far away their lifestyles are from one another in so many ways, _important_ ways… He’s just not afraid to _try_ anymore.

He can’t put it off forever and he doesn’t want to any longer, so he books a ticket for New York and smiles excitedly as he clicks ‘purchase’.

He makes just one more stop on the way though, first flying to LA to visit Stefani while she’s home for a week.

“These are really good,” she says when he plays her the songs he wrote in Germany, Italy, France, and Spain, laughing at how strange Elio found it to be considered ‘Americano’ in Spain after calling Oliver ‘Americano’ all summer. 

She tells Elio she has a song she wrote not all that long ago, which she thinks just might be the perfect ‘pointy end of the spear’ he mentioned when he arrived in New York…

She tells him it’s called ‘Born This Way’ and presses play, watching his face intently as he takes it in.

Elio closes his eyes as he listens, smiling wide at the spoken words at the beginning before she even starts singing. 

Stef can’t keep the smile off her own face at the sight, proud at what she’s written – kinkiness and non-heteronormativity are scattered throughout the songs Elio has written, but she’s proud of the shamelessly _anthemic_ nature of what she’s written.

Elio can’t help but imagine them dancing to it in their favourite clubs before they were anybody, imagine Alex and his friends dancing to it when he gets back home… 

He imagines somebody like a teenage Oliver, growing up in a religious household that tells him he’s terribly wrong inside. He imagines him hearing a song like this on the radio and seeing his friends singing along and considering that maybe there’s nothing about him to be ashamed of after all. That maybe there’s a whole world out there that will accept him exactly as he is with open arms if he decides to live in truth… 

That maybe everything about him that his family tells him is wrong is what will make him happiest if he chooses to love himself for it – and to believe that his god loves him for it too… 

Maybe Elio doesn’t believe anymore, but he sees the power in a line like, _‘I’m beautiful in my way, ‘cause god makes no mistakes’._

A song like this, loved and celebrated by the masses… could _truly_ change the world.

It’s such a happy song it makes him cry a little, finally opening his eyes and looking up at the ceiling as he wipes his cheeks dry. After a moment he swallows his emotions and turns to his friend laughing.

“Why do you even let me write for you when you can do that?” 

Stefani nudges his shoulder with tears in her own eyes.

“I was so hoping you’d say something like that,” she laughs wetly as she pulls him in for a hug. 

They both laugh at themselves for being so emotional, though they know they’re right to be so.

“I let you write because someone’s gotta do the filler work while I’m busy taking it to the world,” Stefani finally ribs, wiping her own eyes and standing. “Enough of this pansy shit,” she declares, grabbing Elio’s forearm and leading him out to her living room.

That night they settle on her couch and sip tea as Elio recounts the last two weeks, explaining his thoughts about a potential future with Oliver and the obstacles in their way, but also how he’s not scared to try anymore because never knowing is scarier to him.

At the end Stef leans her head on her hand on the arm of the couch and looks over at her best friend fondly.

“I think you’re ready to go see him bub; it sounds like your head is back on your shoulders.”

“It is,” Elio agrees with a sip. “It might go wrong, but…” he trails off, looking down.

“But you’re ready for it if it does,” Stefani completes, certainty in her calm voice. 

“I… Yeah, I think I am.”

Less than a day later Elio finds himself back in his apartment, unpacked and ready to make a call on the phone that’s sat ever-heavier in his pocket for the hour or so he’s been home.

He lifts the phone to his ear and calls Oliver. 

It’s brief, the anticipation of meeting in person making a phone call seem hopelessly inadequate after a month apart. He tells Oliver where to meet him and then heads out, mind anxious but strangely blank.

He enters the bar and asks for a glass of water, taking a booth near the back and sipping his drink.

It seems to be hours and yet also seconds that Elio waits, tuning out the music and trying to remember everything he wanted to say but coming up utterly blank…

He knows his eyes widen when a tall figure comes up beside him, seeming unsure of what to do with his hands.

He looks up and sees Oliver smiling down at him, melting his worries and setting him at ease.

“Elio,” he says.

“Oliver.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! Heads = out of asses! :'D
> 
> Aight, so I only have the very vaguest idea of what I might do after this? So if you have any ideas you might want to see play out let me know! I'll have a think but some inspiration might be nice lol
> 
> (Oh also the song the backpackers are playing is [Does It Make You Feel Good](https://youtu.be/2JWaD7BEPO8?t=137) by Confidence Man who may be the coolest people on earth - maybe not the vibe of the scene or of the fic, but I was listening to it and the lyrics connected in my brain lol. Also it was released in 2019 which is like ten years too late but whatever, my fic my rules 😂)
> 
> Hope everyone is still doing okay or doing better, leave me a comment! ♥️♥️


	15. Born This Way pt.7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver talk things through and have a sweet night together...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christ this chapter did not write itself...
> 
> I literally wrote the bar scene and then 2,000+ words of Elio and Oliver talking about the divorce and revealing what LA was really like and then decided that that was stupid and they deserved the fluff I had intended to write. Took ages to come up with the fluff because as I have said, I am an angst-factory, but I got it done, sigh...
> 
> Anyway, I somehow got a job in the middle of an unemployment crisis so yay me :D (probably won't affect updates much, only figuring out what I'm going to do next will tbh)
> 
> Hope you enjoy it!!

They stay there staring for what seems like a long time.

Everything is different to the last time they saw each other.

Well, for Elio it is; not so much for Oliver. Maybe that’s why Oliver is the first to leave the trance and break eye contact, sitting opposite still smiling.

“I uh,” he starts, pausing as though torn between smiling and seriousness. “I have no idea how to start.”

“Me too,” Elio agrees, suddenly nervous.

“I’m glad you’re back?” Oliver offers, phrasing it like a question. “I know I said it on the phone, but… I’ve really missed you,” he says sincerely. “I’ve missed you every day.”

“Me too,” Elio repeats, though he didn’t precisely miss Oliver every single day while he was thinking. Some days he did – and _achingly_ towards the end – but on some days at the beginning it was more complicated.

They sit there in silence for a few moments more while Elio uncoils and takes a sip of his water – a choice of drink that doesn’t go over Oliver’s head. 

He wasn’t sure what Elio would be drinking, so he ordered a beer when he entered so that he wouldn’t feel judged, but he doesn’t touch it as Elio drinks, grateful that they can be certain of clear heads this time.

“…Should I ask about what Europe was like?” he finally hazards with raised eyebrows, searching Elio’s face for a reaction.

What he finds is a conflicted frown and a bitten lip, suggesting any number of negative things.

“No,” he says simply, before looking down with a hint of shame. “No, unless you need to know.”

But it sounds more like, _‘Please don’t make me tell you things that will make you change your mind…’_

“I don’t need to know,” Oliver says immediately.

But it sounds more like, _‘Please believe it’s okay – I don’t need to know, because nothing you can say will change how I feel about you…’_

“I didn’t come here to talk about the past Elio," he insists. "In Europe or LA or New York or at the villa… I just want to talk about the future – our future.”

His desperation to just _get started already_ is clear in his voice. They’d have been back in each other’s arms _yesterday_ if he had a say in it… they would have been holding each other weeks ago.

Elio is clearly conflicted and at first Oliver is worried that perhaps he’s decided he’s better off without him. But then he speaks.

“I want to just begin as well,” he says, easing the tension in Oliver’s body. “I _want_ that…” he insists, making a pained face. “But there are things we need to talk about first. Things I need to know. Things I assume _you_ need to know.”

 _You assume wrong,_ Oliver thinks, but he just nods for Elio to continue – he’s all in, he just needs to get to assuaging the fears he can’t blame Elio for having. 

He was the one who left him on that train platform after all.

“Okay,” Elio says, looking down as though trying to remember a mental list of issues to clear up. “I suppose the biggest one for me, is...”

He takes a deep breath and meets Oliver’s gaze with a steely look.

“I won’t hide for you,” he says definitively with a set jaw and hands clutching each other, as though reaffirming it to himself as well as telling Oliver – like a recovering alcoholic telling himself he’s too strong to drink, no matter how badly he wants to.

Oliver frowns again, needing clarification – he has some idea of what Elio means but he needs more.

“What do you mean?” he asks. “You won’t hide?”

“I can’t be with someone who won’t hold hands with me in public,” Elio says determinedly. “I _won’t_ be with someone who won’t take me to… to faculty dinners or whatever, or won’t tell his parents about me, even if they’ll tell him he’s going to hell for it. I’m not a shameful secret and I won’t be hidden, I’m worth that much.”

This was one thing Stefani strongly agreed upon as a stipulation when they talked about it before he left LA – being proud of who he is is too much a part of Elio’s life and his work to ever hide… even for Oliver. 

It might be the only thing that would force Elio to say no to him.

It’s strange for Oliver to see the battle of Elio’s conviction to live freely and without shame, and his fear that this will be a line Oliver won’t cross.

 _As if that’s where I would give up,_ Oliver thinks dubiously.

…Until it dawns on him that that’s exactly where he gave up before. 

That’s exactly the line he wouldn’t cross. Perhaps Elio’s right, and they really can’t move on to their future without some issues from the past being resolved.

Maybe Elio has made some mistakes recently but all of their big ones have been Oliver’s.

It’s only when Elio tilts his head with a look halfway between accusation and pleading that Oliver realises he’s been silent too long.

“Elio I would do anything to be with you,” he says earnestly, hoping his tone communicates enough of his conviction to undo the doubt his silence may have conveyed. “I would do anything except abandon my children if it meant I could spend my life with you. I don’t care what my parents think about me, and if anyone at the university cares who I’m with it’s really none of their business.” 

Oliver pins Elio with his gaze as he says his next words, hoping he hears the depth and breadth of his feeling. 

“And if anyone doesn’t like us holding hands in the street… they’ve got a hard future to deal with – because of people like you and Stefani.”

Oliver has spent much of the last month listening to Elio’s music over and over to at least hear his presence on the tracks if not his voice, and over that time he’s seen more and more clearly how much the project is subtly but fundamentally shifting what’s acceptable in the world. 

His admiration is clear in his voice, his respect in his eyes, his love palpable…

If Elio doubted whether Oliver thought of him like a stupid kid, or had any reservations about their relationship left during that silence, those last words wipe it all away. 

In that moment he believes that Oliver sees him in the best possible light, sees the best possible version of him… He sees that Oliver could never be bad for him or hurt him again…

It’s like rain after an eight year drought.

He clears his throat to push down his building emotions, but he knows Oliver can see them by the tender look in his eye.

“I… Okay—” he pauses, wanting to put off getting his answer for a moment – despite the hope and love and certainty he’s feeling, there is still something he needs to know.

“I know I need to maybe, like, calm down a little and be a little more kid-friendly eventually if this is going to work, but… you’re okay with me still going out, right?” he asks with a pinched expression, quickly continuing on babbling. “Because it’s still really important to me and to the music and inspiration, and a lot of the time it’s when I’m out that I see my friends and I mean surely I can still go out _dancing,_ I just won’t you know, have sex with anyone who isn’t you – and I promise that won’t be hard, I was with those people the night you picked me up but sometimes I go out just to dance even as it is, I swear I don’t even _kiss_ anyone a lot of the time and—”

“Elio I don’t want you to change anything,” Oliver interrupts, eyes imploring and tone sure. “I mean, I’d deeply appreciate it if you didn’t have sex with anyone who wasn’t me,” he clarifies, with humour. “But I’m not about to ask you to change anything drastic about your life otherwise.”

There’s a small silence.

“But I _am_ asking you to change for me,” Elio says, uncertain. “Or at least to change your life, pretty drastically.”

“By asking me to come out so I can live as who I am, and continue with the divorce I’m getting anyway?” Oliver asks, confused.

“Well… yeah, I guess that’s most of it,” Elio mumbles, looking down and then to the side as he continues. “…But I’d like it if you came out with me sometimes too, it’s a big part of my life…” 

Oliver leans over and catches his eye.

“I’d like that too,” he reassures gently. “I’d like to go out with you sometimes, and I’d like you to come to university dinners, and I’d like to go to your release parties, and I’d like you to be in my kids’ lives when the time comes… I want us to have a _life_ together,” he insists, tacking on a hasty, “Whenever we’re ready,” just in case the prospect of meeting his kids or fusing their lives too soon scares Elio.

But that’s not exactly why Elio doesn’t speak at first.

“…You want your kids to meet me?” he asks, something between hope and fear in his voice.

“Of course I do,” Oliver says with a quiet huff of laughter. “You’re the best person I know,” he says, as though confused how Elio could not know that.

“No, I’m not,” Elio says abashedly, looking down at the table. 

He’s not sure how he feels about Oliver’s words. 

He has the confidence his parents and Rosie and Stef gave him, but like anyone, he still has conflicting feelings of not being good enough when he’s told he’s something he might have to live up to by someone he cares about.

Sometimes he feels like Oliver puts him on a pedestal and he can’t possibly live up to the idea he has of him – can only disappoint him by ruining this idea he’s built up of him over the years they’ve been apart… 

But if he’s seen him wasted and post-surgery and before breaking up with Reid… 

Maybe he’s just an idiot in love, like Elio.

Just when Oliver looks like he’s about to start a pep talk Elio continues, not wanting to get into some kind of self-worth conversation loop.

“Is… there anything _you_ want to talk about while we’re here?” he asks, tilting his head.

Oliver considers. 

Like he thought before, perhaps they _should_ discuss the past to move on properly and healthily… but he doesn’t feel like there’s anything left for him to parse out. 

He knows he’s made mistakes, he knows he hurt Elio, and he knows that both good and bad came of that. 

...And now they have a chance for the best to come of this.

“There are things with the divorce – with my kids – that maybe we should talk about when the time comes, but… They’ll come up when they come up,” he shrugs, though not light-heartedly. “Maybe I should be angry that you ran away and that you didn’t talk to me for two weeks – maybe I should say something about how awful it was to wait for you to call and how worried I was…” 

Oliver trails off and shakes his head as he looks up, meeting Elio’s eyes with a tenderness completely at odds with his words just moments ago.

“But I don’t want to,” he says simply, laying down his cards. “I just want to start being together. I’ve been putting it off for so long, I want to start yesterday, I just…” Oliver sighs. “I just want to be holding you right now. I just want to go home with you, and spend time with you, and talk all night without dancing around how we really feel because my wife might hear.”

There’s an unreadable look in Elio’s eyes when Oliver is done, but he’s certain it’s a good thing. 

“I want that too,” Elio finally admits, slowly. “But can we just… do it? Do we just go home and start?”

After such a long time with their relationship being this distant thing, this sacred, beautiful idea that could never be realised… It seems impossible, unceremonious, _vulgar_ almost, to just… go home. Hang out. Probably have lots of sex.

All that longing and pain and tragic destiny, is just… something that happened in the past now?

All the work the they put into trying to cope with being apart was unnecessary?

It feels too fast, and not fast enough, and… what else is there left to say?

“...I think we _do_ just start,” Oliver muses, raising his eyebrows.

And then Elio stands, and Oliver stands with him. 

And then they’re holding each other, swaying silently for a few moments before Oliver pulls back and cups Elio’s jaw, admiring the sweet face looking up at him and pressing their lips together.

Sober, intentional, without regret, without complications…

It’s just a kiss between two people in love.

They join hands and immediately abandon their booth, walking out onto the street. 

It feels odd at first, strangely pedestrian and disjointed to just be allowed to hold hands in public with nothing to hide or hold back or be ashamed of, each looking at the other uncertainly – half-giddy and half-nervous. 

But it quickly passes as they grin and walk a little faster – they’re both enjoying being able to show off their love, but they’re also keen to be alone and start living their lives as they’ve both known they should have been from the beginning. 

There’s a look in Elio’s eyes when they arrive at his apartment, and while it’s been many years since they've engaged in this particular activity Oliver is certain he knows exactly what it means.

He’s very much correct, but there’s something on his mind this time as the shirts come off, his confidence lessened without the alcohol he'd imbibed the last time they were so close.

“What’s wrong?” Elio asks, confused, with a sympathetic look drawing his brows together.

“I…” Oliver sighs. “I don’t know, I just… I know I don’t look exactly like I did when we were together anymore,” he explains, looking to the side to try to hide his insecurity.

Elio tilts his head and gives a tiny, bright, loving smile, moving to stand in his line of sight and holding his gaze with widened eyes.

“That’s what you’re worried about?” he asks, affectionate and dubious as his hands move to Oliver’s sides which perhaps aren’t as hard or muscled as they once were, but are still perfect to him.

More than perfect; they’re _Oliver’s._

“It’s not like I think I look bad,” Oliver backtracks, a little uncomfortable in his confession. “I just know I used to be more, you know…”

He gestures vaguely rather than finishing his sentence – the word ‘cut’ comes to mind but he’s not going to say it. 

“Wait, you’re saying you’re not _actually_ made of marble?” Elio teases, gasping sarcastically though not unkindly. “I want my money back,” he exclaims.

“Stop making fun of me,” Oliver whines, though his heart warms – he always knew deep down that Elio wouldn’t care, if he even noticed, but a persistent part of him that’s had to take a backseat since his children were born has always been overly harsh about his body.

Elio wishes that part would fuck off.

“I love your body,” he says earnestly – he was trying to lighten the situation before, but he needs Oliver to know he means this. “I loved it as it was, I love it as it is, and I’ll love it as it will be,” he declares, maintaining his gaze so he knows Oliver is truly hearing him. 

When he thinks the message has been received he speaks again with an easier tone.

“I think it’s sexy that you’re different,” he shrugs.

And it’s true. 

He likes that you can see evidence that Oliver has lived his life, in his darker hair, his slightly different build, the lines slowly beginning around his eyes… He likes that it shows that Oliver has progressed as a person and hasn’t been stuck trying to stay exactly as he was in 2002.

“You do?” Oliver asks hopefully, interrupting Elio’s admiring thoughts.

Elio rolls his eyes, smiling indulgently and pulling their bodies together forcefully.

 _“Yes,”_ he insists exasperatedly. “Now can we please be horizontal and naked?”

And at that, Oliver is only too happy to oblige his love’s request.

As the sun is setting in the city that evening they find themselves just as Elio wanted them – horizontal, naked, exhausted…

“It’s funny,” Oliver says around a lazy huff. “I don’t remember teaching you those positions.”

Elio gives a soft laugh, looking down at Oliver where he’s resting his head on his chest. An easy grin makes its way onto his face as he plays with a strand of the older man’s hair.

“What you taught me was _cute,”_ he says with a raised eyebrow and a grin. “But you can’t live with Stef for long without hearing some weird shit and getting a little curious… And like this, the student becomes the teacher,” he teases jokingly.

Oliver laughs quietly, placing his hands on Elio’s sides and kissing him right in the middle of his ribcage, and then just below.

“You want to go _again?”_ Elio asks incredulously as he kisses him again, lower.

Oliver shakes his head with a chuckle and says, “I don’t know if I can even _stand_ right now,” sighing contentedly. He traces circles around the slowly fading round scars decorating Elio’s abdomen from that night, and he thinks.

A few moments of easy silence pass before he speaks again.

“I’m really glad your appendix tried to kill you…” he murmurs.

Elio frowns and lifts his head to give an incredulous look. _“Excuse me?”_

Oliver chuckles – he’s serious, but he knew Elio would react if he phrased it like that and left it for a second, and he wanted to see it.

“Obviously I wish you hadn’t gone through the pain,” he placates, raising his hands in surrender before becoming quite serious. “…But that was the night I decided to leave Micol.”

Elio is quiet for a moment, looking to the side.

“That seems like both too long ago and too recently…” he murmurs thoughtfully.

Sitting up, he pats the space next to him and pulls the covers up around them, a little cold in the air-conditioning now that his blood isn’t pumping so fast. Pulling Oliver’s arm around him and moving his legs across his, Elio asks about the divorce.

And then they talk for half an hour, about the separation and what led to it, about what’s going to happen and how it’s going to work, with Elio comforting Oliver and accepting that it’s not his fault that any of it happened – there was nothing he could have done differently once Oliver saw him again.

Nothing he _should_ have done differently.

Then Oliver asks about LA. And he doesn’t love hearing about how Reid made bad habits seem normal, or how lonely Elio was there when Stefani started touring, or how he didn’t tell Oliver about any of it at the time because he didn’t want him to see him that way, which only drove him further into the cycle…

But by the end he does the same, finally accepting at Elio’s insistence that how he chose to deal with his own loneliness and unhappiness in LA had nothing to do with him, and there was nothing he could have done with Elio telling him nothing when they spoke.

By the end both of them are talked out and ready to just have a fun, light-hearted night, but there’s something Oliver has to say first.

“I love you,” he says simply, for the first time.

The contented little smile on Elio’s face widens at the phrase, but it barely even registers to him as a first – they’ve said this to each other before, just not in so many words.

“I love you too…” he murmurs, and then more brightly with a grin and a nudge, “But you’re only saying that now because you don’t know where I keep the good takeout menus.”

Standing and throwing on a pair of sweats Elio calls out.

“Last one to the kitchen has to get up when the food comes!”

Oliver just rolls his eyes as he watches his love dart to the kitchen, more than happy to answer the door when the knock comes.

…He’s just more than happy in general.

They’ve moved the bed up against the large window nearby and settled on it with Chinese food an hour later, listening quietly to something Elio calls 'chillhop' and pointing out people on the street below, making up stories for them.

Oliver would never have dreamed of eating in his bed at home, but he supposes he’ll have to get used to abandoning some traditional wisdom with Elio – it’s very freeing, but possibly a slippery slope for a father of two hoping to instil good habits. 

Maybe some rules will have to be reinstated during visits, when the kids start coming over to wherever they live together.

It feels so good to Oliver, to be able to reasonably assume that they’ll live together at some point in the not-so-distant future…

Elio breaks him out of his wandering thoughts, pointing with his chopsticks to an elderly woman power walking with a sweatband on her head and an fanny pack around her waist, swallowing his last mouthful before commenting.

“She’s a sleeper agent for the soviet union who never stopped after the cold war – people think she’s walking because she can’t do anything else anymore, but in reality she can still do spinning kicks and kill a man with her bare hands. She practices on alley cats sometimes and uses the meat to make pies, because she knows no other way.”

Oliver nods, accepting this assessment with an approving nod. He then points to a young, seemingly-mismatched couple arguing as they walk past – the man in a red tracksuit with a big gold chain and sunglasses, and the woman in a floral sundress.

“They’re arguing because he just found out his name in her phone is still _‘tracksuit guy – big chain’_ when he was about to ask her to meet his parents.”

Elio laughs at that, throwing his head back in a way that gives Oliver no other choice than to lean in and kiss his neck. Elio stops his cackling and just looks at him like his can’t believe this is happening.

And then he says, “Oliver, I can’t believe this is happening.”

They always could read each other, after they’d admitted their feelings.

“Me neither,” Oliver says, tugging Elio closer until his arms are around him, and pressing kisses into the back of his neck.

“What should we call each other?” Elio asks with a shiver after a particularly delicate kiss.

“Elio… Oliver…” the older man hazards questioningly.

Elio huffs a little laugh at that, but his enquiry was genuine.

“No, I mean to other people… We’re not exactly going to be dating – no one is anyone’s _boyfriend_ here,” he says, lip curling disdainfully at the word.

Oliver agrees – ‘boyfriends’ meet at bars and go on dates to get to know each other, but _they_ already know each other better than themselves.

“…Partners?” Oliver guesses.

“Are we cowboys?” Elio replies with a face like he’s tasting something sour.

“I mean, it’s not how I would think of you in my _head,”_ Oliver agrees, unconcerned, before becoming very serious as he murmurs, “They don’t have a word for how I think of you in my head…”

But he knows Elio doesn’t have a thoughtful response in mind when he sees the shit-eating grin on his face.

“They _do_ have a word for how I think of you in my head…” he says with a raised eyebrow.

“And how’s that?” Oliver asks.

“Naked.”

Oliver rolls his eyes but doesn’t protest as Elio pulls his shirt over his head and begins a trail of kisses that move slowly down to explore some really quite sensitive areas…

Having cleaned up the food and laid out on the couch, they end up watching the tail-end of some historical film that ends with someone’s head being cut off. 

Oliver winces and pulls Elio close at the moment of impact.

“I can’t believe they used to do that,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “I know there are worse ways to kill someone but it still seems barbaric – maybe _because_ it’s so quick and easy.”

Elio, on the other hand just shakes his head. 

“It wasn’t easy,” he disagrees, not taking his eyes off the screen. “It often took a few strokes to get the head off with an axe. Which is why Henry the Eighth called in a French swordsman for his fifth wife’s execution – controversially before she’d even been condemned. Guillotining was one stroke though, which is maybe why they were still guillotining people in France until 1977.”

Oliver just looks down at him and smiles as he recalls something he said a long time ago.

“Is there anything you don’t know?” he asks with a nostalgic, admiring smile.

Elio looks up in surprise, smiling as his mind notes the difference between when Oliver first said that and now. 

It makes him happy to hear it, because as much as he likes who he’s become, he still wants to hear that Oliver thinks he’s smart, confidently and often – maybe he didn’t go to university in the end, but his love, Oliver Lachman, PhD, still thinks he knows everything…

Suddenly in the mood to show off, Elio blurts out, “I wrote a song about us with Stefani in LA the other day.”

“You did?” Oliver asks openly, curious to hear.

“Mm,” Elio hums. “I could play it for you now?” he offers, raising an eyebrow.

Oliver releases him from his arms and allows Elio to tug him by the hand to the piano stool where he settles with his old guitar. 

“It’s… it’s still a draft, and it’s supposed to be played on an electric guitar but my amp is somewhere in the closet,” he explains, suddenly inexplicably nervous. 

He’s played songs to Oliver before, but never sober, and never in person… maybe that’s why his palms are sweating as he grips his old guitar.

When Oliver just nods encouragingly for him to begin, Elio takes a deep breath and plays the intro.

 _“My body is sanctuary, my blood is pure…”_ he begins, refusing to lift his eyes from his chord hand until he’s done.

Oliver would be able to tell that the song was about them even if he hadn’t said so, but he’s more focused on hearing Elio’s singing voice in person for the first time – he’s not a theatrical, professional singer like Stefani, but Oliver is still bathing in his soft voice, eyes closed and heart open.

Elio can feel Oliver’s body language shift in his peripheral vision as he sings, _“Together we’ll both find a way to make a pure love work in a dirty way…”_ and then, _“If you want me, meet me at Electric Chapel…”_

Oliver smiles at the lyric, knowing that this chronicle of their meeting at the bar today will, in all likelihood, be released on an album set by all accounts to rock the world.

 _People will know our story even if they don’t know us,_ Oliver thinks as he opens his eyes, looking on his love proudly as he continues and finishes. 

He has no words, so he just cups Elio’s cheeks and kisses him from above, soft and true.

“You liked it then?” Elio asks with a small smile.

“Do you need to ask?”

Later that night after they’ve watched a less violent movie and made out like teenagers on the couch they’re settled in bed waiting for sleep to come.

Elio wants to just be soothed by Oliver’s presence but he’s already thinking about how he’ll be sleeping here alone again tomorrow.

“You have to go home tomorrow, don’t you?”

Oliver hums apologetically. “I do, sorry…”

“Don’t be sorry,” Elio sighs, accepting. “You should. I know you need to spend most nights with your kids and I _want_ that to happen for their sakes, I just… I’m just sad I won’t get to do this every night, even though we’re together and it’s all happening…”

His acceptance is clear in his voice, but also his sadness. It tugs at Oliver’s heart though he knows it’s necessary.

“I’ll call you before bed?” he offers, trying to ease the hurt.

“I’d like that,” Elio replies sleepily, a soft smile in his voice.

“I’m sorry I can’t just drop everything,” Oliver sighs, wishing he could give everything he feels he owes. 

Like he said – he would do anything but abandon his children for Elio… his children just require so much time and energy and they deserve a dedicated father, they _have_ to be his first priority.

He knows Elio understands that though… he’s too good and too loving not to.

“I don’t need you to drop everything,” Elio says gently. “We’ve got the rest of our lives to spend time together…”

And at that Oliver thinks he might have fallen asleep, but then a few moments later he speaks softly into the ambience of New York’s muted night time soundscape echoing in the room, coming softly from the closed windows.

“Just don’t break my heart again…” he murmurs. “I don’t think I could ever put it back together if you did.”

Something twists in Oliver’s stomach at the words but he just pulls Elio closer, nuzzling his neck.

“I’m never going to hurt you again,” he promises solemnly.

And Elio decides he’s going to believe him, falling asleep to the certain knowledge that nothing will ever be able to pull them apart again.

They know too well how it hurts to be apart…

It’s damaged them in the past, but they are going to be whole now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They will be HAPPY(! :D) 
> 
> Just letting y'all know the next chapter will probably involve a time jump bc I gots not much planned until Gaga hurts her hip
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it, hope you're all still staying safe! I was, but am now working handing out lottery tickets and scratchies to old people who pay with nasty ass cash and clearly don't care about social distancing, but we've got hand sanitiser at least :') Hand washing is where it's at yo
> 
> Leave me a comment and let me know anything you want to see happen! Because again, it's kind of open-ended at this point, I have no idea where it's going or how it will end ♥️


	16. Born This Way pt.8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver go about fusing their lives, taking the good and the bad in stride...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be the last like, _chapter_ chapter?
> 
> Some of the fluff might be a little ooc but you know, it's supposed to be my happy fluffy fic so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ (Oh also, the song before they go out is called [Stripper](https://youtu.be/tazd1hqZwbk?t=63) \- maybe a little dated but it was 2011 lol)
> 
> Hope you guys are doing well! Hope you enjoy this!

Over the next few months Elio and Oliver navigate the process of fusing their lives.

In many ways it’s easier than either could ever have imagined.

Oliver does as he promised and calls Elio before bed most nights so they can tell each other about their days, in general events and minute details both, and it doesn’t get boring or overly domestic like it might with someone else with both of them just enjoying finally being able to speak honestly without guilt or fear.

Oliver makes it a point to at least visit Elio at his apartment once a week if not to stay, and other than when he has to fly to LA to give his input on the production on Stefani’s album, Elio makes sure to meet Oliver for lunch once or twice a week on his break at the university.

He would love to just have lunch with Oliver in his office so he could have more time to talk and eat – and maybe lock the doors and engage in a different mouth-related activity – but tongues would start wagging if someone caught on to what was happening before Oliver made his divorce public.

By September however, the divorce is finalised, custody is sorted, and Oliver breaks the news at work, leaving only telling the children to go – and leaving him free to have whoever he wants in his office. 

Elio can’t stop smiling the first time he brings Oliver his lunch – even though he’s gotten a categorical ‘no’ on anything ‘inappropriate’ at this point.

“I feel like I should be dressed up like a fifties housewife, dutifully bringing her husband his lunch at the office,” he laughs as he sits down.

Oliver smiles back, raising an eyebrow as he pops the lid on his container and says with humour, “Who’s stopping you?”

Elio leans back into the chair he’s dragged behind the desk to face Oliver’s and raises a matching brow.

“Oliver Lachman, do you have something you want to share?” he teases, though a little part of him is genuinely curious to see if he meant something by that. He wouldn’t be opposed to exploring something along those lines with Oliver; he’s dabbled in it before with others and Oliver _did_ like his makeup that night…

But Oliver just laughs again, saying, “Not like that,” in a tone he believes. 

Elio just hums and eyes him suspiciously while he’s not looking, wondering if tonight is perhaps the night to introduce a few new things he’s learned beyond just different positions.

_I couldn’t convince him of anything in the workplace, but perhaps I could bring the workplace home… I do have a pair of stockings collecting dust; does Oliver have a secretary?_

_No?_

_…Does he want one?_

It isn’t all easy and fun though.

Oliver isn’t sure when – if ever – he’ll hear from his parents again after breaking the news that not only is he breaking up that perfect marriage they pressured him to seek out, he’s also doing it to be with a man; and not just any man but the one who writes most of Lady Gaga’s music. 

Yes mom, _that_ Lady Gaga…

Elio really hit the mark when he suggested Oliver’s parents might tell him he’s going to hell when they found out about it all, but… Oliver is both surprised, and unsurprised, to find that he doesn’t care. 

He just doesn’t care anymore. Keeping Elio or pleasing parents who never much cared for him in the first place anyway? 

Those ideas don’t even battle, one of them just executes the other.

When they tell the children though… that’s where Oliver finds it hurts.

He isn’t sure if Max’s wailing tantrum or Grace’s broodingly thoughtful silence is worse… Maybe they’re just as bad in different ways. 

He knew that Grace suspected something was wrong long before Micol said those final ending words, but he can’t help but feel as though rather than preparing her and softening the blow, it’s just taught her something false, something beyond her years; planted some horrible seed of mistrust and instability in her just waiting to take away her childhood…

She was always the quieter, the more thoughtful of the two children, but Oliver worries about her silence.

When he asks later, hoping to have a reassuring talk, she remains silent until the very end of his speech about how Mommy and Daddy will always love her.

She frowns slightly and presses her lips together before asking, “…Are you and Elio going to break up one day too?”

Grace looks up at her father with a look halfway between innocent questioning and wariness beyond her handful of years.

She’s just trying to figure out how love works. She’s trying to figure out if she should get attached to things the way they will be, trying to figure out if she should trust grownups when they say that they’ll love each other forever…

Oliver can see it in her eyes though she tries to hide it.

He tries to answer in a way that lets on that he knows she sees more than most her age, and that she can trust him not to lie to her.

“I don’t know Gracie,” he says, though he does know in his heart. “I don’t think we ever will… All I know is that I love Elio very, very much, and I don’t think that will ever change. So I think he’s going to be in our lives for a very long time… Is that okay?”

Grace seems to think something through for a moment before her little face suddenly turns sad and she shakes her head, tearing up.

“No,” she says ever so quietly, and reaches out for a hug that Oliver doesn’t think he’ll ever recover from, in the moment.

“Oh, Gracie,” he says, trying desperately to think of how to comfort her as he rubs her back, shaking with such tiny sobs… 

She _needs_ him to know what he’s doing here, this tiny little person he’s responsible for…

“I know it’s scary but it’ll be okay,” he says, trying to reassure her. “I _promise_ it will be okay again and things will be better…”

“You promise it’ll be okay?” she asks tearfully, finally letting go of her reservations and allowing her father to comfort her because the thought that it might not be okay again is too terrible to hold in her heart.

“I promise,” he says firmly.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure Gracie, I promise, I’m so sorry…” 

Grace cries the first night, but it’s definitely Max who seems to struggle the most with the change. 

Oliver knows he’ll have to pay close attention to Grace’s feelings about it all since she keeps them so much closer to her chest… but it’s hard to ignore Max’s crying tantrums.

He seems to be determined to hate Elio the first time they meet, still upset and blaming it all on this stranger in his life. Elio does his best but it’s really only Grace who shows any interest in getting to know him, perhaps to try to understand why things are changing – why her Daddy loves this new person so much that things have to change.

The day of that first meeting Oliver asks Micol to come and pick the kids up rather than just driving them home, because he knows Elio well enough to know how it’s going to go the second he doesn’t need to hold it together for them.

And he’s right; the moment the door closes that kind look tinged with veiled sadness on his face falls, and he brings his hands to his face to hide.

“I _knew_ I was going to be horrible at this,” he cries, feeling like he’s failing Oliver terribly. “I’ve never even been around children before, I have no idea what I’m doing! They _hate_ me…”

Oliver just shushes him, folding him into his arms and reassuring him that Grace is just quiet, and Max is just a kid, he just needs some time to adjust…

But Elio won’t be soothed, can’t be helped in the moment. He feels sick about it all.

He’s going to be in these kids’ lives for the rest of his own… he doesn’t want to be the evil stepmother, the usurper, he doesn’t want them to hate him… They _deserve_ someone they _love_ in their lives.

_If Oliver moves in with me and they hate me what will that do to their visits? Will they avoid seeing him because of me? I should have just left it all alone, I never should have started any of this…_

Elio stops crying eventually but he can’t be truly consoled that night, going to bed too sick to eat and too wired to sleep.

He barely manages three hours, but ultimately in the morning he knows he has to just pick himself up and keep going.

The fight isn’t over, and there was never any guarantee that things would go smoothly at first – this was part of the deal.

Max still seems to struggle with the concept of his Daddy being with a man like he was with Mommy for a few weeks after that first meeting, but in the end once he realises that he’s going to get to have _two_ houses, and that he’ll get an extra birthday present from Elio _every year_ he perks right up about it all. 

Micol asking him to be a good boy for her at the door when she drops him off doesn’t hurt either, though it’s an awkward moment when she spots Elio and they have to shake each other’s hands in a bland and overly polite introduction.

It’s when Elio discovers that Max’s affections can quite easily be bought, though, that they start bonding over Lego sets and a brand new PlayStation like nothing ever even happened.

The PlayStation is definitely overkill but Elio looks too happy, when Max hugs his legs and squeals out his thanks, for Oliver to say anything.

“Told you so,” he says smugly on the drive back to Elio’s for the night after Max called out happy goodbyes to _both_ of them as they pulled away from the curb.

Elio doesn’t rib back though, his relief too genuine; palpable, and crushing.

At first he just pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes hard, and Oliver thinks he might be about to cry and make him regret his light tone, but when he leans back and takes a deep breath, he’s smiling as he lets it out.

“You did,” is all he says, looking out the open window with a look that tells Oliver he’s too deep in thought to be retrieved for the time being.

By mid-December Oliver has moved his things to Elio’s and Micol has found a small suburban home near the school where she works. The kids are staying with her except for day visits until Elio’s lease is up, and it’s decided that Oliver will spend Hanukkah at that house with them while Elio visits his parents at the villa for a few days.

As far as Oliver can tell Elio has never closed a cupboard or drawer in his life, but overall, it’s very smooth sailing in general except for with Grace.

Max seems to have wholeheartedly accepted the excitement of the change and eagerly found the good in the new, but Grace seems much more wary of it all, spending a long time saying goodbye to their old family apartment and taking a few days to sleep through the night in her new room.

She even wets the bed on the second night – something she hadn’t done in a year or more before that. Micol only finds out about it when she finds her little girl trying to work the washing machine in the night. 

Grace was easier to engage with on the first day, but long after Max has started pulling Elio’s jeans when he wants a snack and stopped saying please without prompting, Grace still doesn’t seem any more comfortable than the first day… she’s still shy and reserved the way she is with strangers, and not just because she's upset about her parents breaking up.

In the end it’s Grace’s inquisitive nature that leads to her coming around after a month or two.

Max is playing his PlayStation and Grace is putting away her toys listening to the radio while Elio is chopping up some vegetables for dinner, when ‘Just Dance’ comes on, and Grace speaks quietly to her father so Elio won’t hear.

“Daddy, did Elio write this song?” she asks, not looking up from her toys, as though trying to feign nonchalance.

“…He did,” Oliver says slowly, kneeling down and tilting his head to catch her eye. “How did you know Gracie-bean?”

Graces looks down with a slightly abashed look, as though she wasn’t supposed to find out.

“Well I remember this song playing when the man said your name on TV that time,” she explains, fiddling with a Lego piece. “He looked like Elio, and you said he does music, so I thought maybe he wrote this song.”

Oliver smiles openly, hoping to communicate that it’s okay that she knows; that she doesn’t need to be wary about any of this. 

“You’re a little detective aren’t you,” he says as he musses her mousy hair with pride that makes her blush adorably. “Yes it was Elio on TV, and Elio did write this song.”

Encouraged by her father’s lack of displeasure, Grace drops the piece in the box and allows her interest to come through, giving a quizzical look.

“What else did he write?” she asks, looking curiously over at Elio where he stands in the kitchen looking perfectly ordinary in an oversized knitted sweater and hissing when he burns a finger on a hot pan. 

Oliver laughs a little too loudly and gets a heatless glare in return before answering his daughter’s question.

“Elio probably wrote all the songs you’ve heard from Lady Gaga Gracie, but… you’d have to ask him,” he says strategically with a pointed nod up towards the kitchen.

He’s definitely heard Grace playing some censored Lady Gaga before, and he’s fairly certain it’s not just because her friends like it, the way it is with some other things she watches or listens to… this could be their in.

Grace widens her eyes, her mouth opening into a tiny little ‘o’, and Oliver knows he’s handled this right.

“Even ‘Pokerface’ and ‘Bad Romance’? And the phone one?”

“Well you’d have to ask him sweetheart, but I think he told me once that he was writing the phone one with Lady Gaga when he met Beyoncé.”

At that Grace’s jaw drops to the floor, her eyes comically wide with unbridled excitement Oliver has so rarely seen from his daughter. 

He laughs and herds her into the kitchen, sitting her up on the counter while Elio regales her with – heavily edited and censored – tales of his and Stefani’s exploits in songwriting as he cooks. He tells her all about how they make the music videos and his brief encounter with Beyoncé herself, and promises her that he doesn’t need to ask his friend Lady Gaga for an autograph because he’s sure she’ll come to visit soon, and she’ll give her one then.

It might be difficult to arrange with scheduling, but Elio has promised, so he’s determined to make it work – he’s not about to break his first promise just as Grace seems to lose her wariness around him.

With the ice suddenly broken Grace seems much more at ease with Elio after that, and it’s like his entire being breathes a sigh of relief – it feels like the final piece has fallen into place and they can start to relax, and finally just enjoy their life together…

Once they become comfortable around him Elio absolutely falls in love with the children, and they fall in love with him too, quickly developing little inside jokes that they refuse to explain to Oliver as they laugh conspiratorially, and utilising the skills Elio possesses with craft, hair, makeup, dress ups… Far beyond anything Oliver or Micol ever learned.

Elio’s only struggle seems to be swallowing back ‘bad language’ around them, but he manages well enough.

He quickly begins spending far too much of his time and money buying things for them online, and at first it’s adorable, but Oliver has to put a swift stop to it before both houses fill up to the roof with utter crap and his children get used to being spoiled.

Elio sees his point and slows to a halt. Or, you know… halt-adjacent

“So what did you get up to today?” Oliver asks one evening, smiling around a mouthful of Elio’s Mafalda-approved pasta.

“Oh, you know, got a coffee, played around with some synths, read a book… spent some time on my laptop…”

There’s a suspicious note to Elio’s tone as he says that last thing he did that has Oliver pausing in his chewing, swallowing before he speaks, deadpan.

“You bought more crap didn’t you.”

“Oliver, listen—”

“No, we talked about this—”

“No _listen,_ I’ve been _really good_ the last few weeks, I haven’t bought _anything_ and I saw these cute little rainbow nail polish sets and I knew they’d love to play with them when they come over next week so I figured it was just like, this _one, tiny_ little fun thing to do, but then I thought teaching them face paint could be fun too and I found a really good face paint set and it’s _not_ like with the little electric play cars, okay, this was _small,_ I couldn’t _help it…”_ he insists with a whine, before tacking on the end so fast Oliver can barely catch what he’s saying, “And it’s all technically makeup so it can’t be returned anyway.”

Oliver just takes another bite after the spiel and chews, giving a steely look – though it’s heatless in truth.

“You are a menace,” he declares when he’s swallowed. “Next week we are taking them to a _museum,_ or showing them a _documentary_ at some point.”

Elio just raises his hands in surrender and continues eating.

…In his head already planning the face paint the kids are going to be wearing while they watch said documentary.

Having kids around is _fun,_ and Elio will die on this hill.

It’s never anything serious, but there are a few moments that give Oliver pause for a moment.

Like when he comes over without warning one day to find Elio laid out on his couch using pieces of sliced bread to spoon globs of Nutella into his mouth, eyes redder than a London bus. 

The windows may be open and Oliver may not have experimented with it much at university, but he’s familiar enough with the scent of weed to know it when he smells it.

“Oliver!” Elio calls out happily, opening his arms but making no effort to stand or even sit up.

It’s adorable and Oliver leans down awkwardly to accept the embrace with a smile, but he’s immediately thinking about how he can’t have his kids accidentally finding Elio’s weed when they come over, even if they wouldn’t even know what to do with it yet – he knew Elio smoked with some of his friends sometimes, but he didn’t know he kept it around himself.

They’ll have to discuss it at some point, but it’s clear Elio is in no state to discuss anything of import right now.

“How’s the weather up there?” Oliver asks with a small, amused grin as he pushes some of Elio’s longer hair out of his eyes.

“The fuck are you talking about…” Elio murmurs before realisation widens his eyes and he descends into the most stoned laughter Oliver has ever heard. Which makes _him_ laugh, which makes Elio laugh harder – at their laughter more than Oliver’s words. He sits up and doubles over, tears in his eyes over a joke that was mildly funny at best.

Oliver wishes it was always this easy to make him laugh so hard.

“Because I’m _high,”_ he wheezes, laughing for far too long before eventually collecting himself enough to lean up to cup Oliver’s cheeks and kiss his lips as best he can while he’s still smiling so hard. “I love you,” he declares dopily.

“For my weed humour?” Oliver asks with a raised brow.

“No… I love you for your…” Elio looks deep into Oliver’s eyes as though he could find the right words there if he looked hard enough, but he quickly becomes distracted by a noise on the TV and loses focus, his hands sliding from his love’s cheeks to his shoulders. 

“Y’know, your uh…”

Oliver turns his head to see what’s caught his attention so easily and so completely.

A blonde man seems to be fighting a group of space soldiers in red spandex, using only the power of football. 

It’s got to have been more than twenty years since he saw it once as a kid, but he’s pretty sure Elio is watching the 1980 Flash Gordon movie.

_…Why?_

Elio’s heavy-lidded eyes narrow in intense concentration as he takes in the ridiculous events transpiring on screen, trying to make sense of them – a difficult task even without the weed.

“Oliver, this movie…” he says slowly, eyes still assessing. “It’s really bad, right? And kind of racist?”

Oliver laughs easily, taking Elio’s place on the couch and pulling him to lie between his legs. He’s never seen him like this before but it’s extremely entertaining, and even more endearing. 

He’s not just been smoking, he’s fucking _stoned._

Oliver just wants to protect this perplexed little Elio, bundle him up like a burrito and answer all his confused questions.

“You’re kind of dumb right now, huh?” he says warmly, kissing the top of his love’s head without judgement.

At that Elio laughs again and sidles up closer, seemingly unable to control his unbridled happiness in his current state.

“I really am,” he snickers unselfconsciously in agreement, trusting Oliver not to truly make fun of him. “Not as dumb as this fuckin’ movie though. I think this guy’s only power is that he can like… do football good?”

“Mm, that tracks,” Oliver nods with a smile, in heaven in that moment.

"Oliver?"

"Mm?"

"Will you pass me the Nutella?"

In the end they do wind up having a discussion about keeping weed in the house when the kids are over, once Elio has had a nap and sobered up later in the evening. 

Ultimately Elio decides to just get a locked safe and keep _all_ his less-than-child-friendly items in there from then on so they don’t risk running into trouble with curious children poking in their fingers in where they ought not.

At least for now, that is. When they move into the place where they’ll be having entire weeks with children staying in the house Elio agrees that it’s not a good idea to have it around at all – Micol would lose her mind if she ever found out, Oliver is sure.

He smiles as he leaves Elio sleeping in the apartment that night, constantly surprised at how easily their lives seem to slot together despite all logic pointing to the contrary.

_I wonder what my dad would think, if he knew when he was trying to make me a ‘real man’ that I would still grow up to share custody weeks with my children with my younger, Italian, weed-smoking, pop-song-writing, leather-crop-owning partner…_

_‘…Are we cowboys?’_ Elio’s offended voice echoes in his head, and Oliver laughs.

Who the fuck cares what his dad would think?

Once everything is sorted and Elio feels comfortable with his new place in Oliver’s life, he finally drops the big question.

“Do you want to go out tonight?”

He asks it leaning suggestively against a wall while a song in which the only words Oliver can make out are ‘hey’ and ‘stripper’ plays in the background. He’s already dressed up in his slightly platformed boots and his tightest black jeans, rings on his fingers and makeup on his eyes not dissimilar to the night Oliver found in him that club… 

On anyone else it might have been too much for his taste – but on Elio? 

Just right.

The leather jacket saves him from the cold but not from Oliver’s undressing, appreciative gaze as he takes off his work coat – not that he wants any saving from that.

It doesn’t look like he’s giving much of a choice, given the outfit and the smirk on his lips, but Oliver isn’t about to complain.

“Well,” he says, placing his work bag on the table and removing his tie. “It _is_ Friday night. And you _do_ look ready to go out…” he murmurs, stalking up to Elio and burying his hands in the hair at the back of his head, pulling him into a kiss just dirty enough for the collar around his neck. 

He’s still new to even the tamest side of all of this but Elio loves it, and he loves the look of loving it on Elio, so he does his best.

If the dazed expression is anything to go by he’s done his job.

Elio takes a second to catch his breath with his eyes closed afterwards, but when he opens them he gives Oliver a look he’s never seen before; something caught between hungry and feasting, dark and definitely challenging. 

And then it’s gone. Elio sways to the kitchen, clearly having started his night already judging by the residue in the drinking glass on the counter and the open vodka bottle.

“Vodka,” Oliver says flatly with a note of dread – Elio developed a taste for the stuff when he came to New York, but it never grew on the older man.

“You don’t have to,” he shrugs happily, reaching up into his cabinet for the bourbon they drank the night before he left for Germany. He turns around and lifts it, saying, “I’ll pour, you get changed.”

Oliver goes to do as ordered, but he pauses at the closet doors.

“What do I even wear?” he asks, feeling suddenly out of his depth.

Elio just shrugs again, saying, “Jeans, t-shirt, shoes you wouldn’t wear to work… It’s just a club Oliver, you don’t have to be wearing full-body leather.”

He rolls his eyes on those last words and Oliver sticks his tongue out in response – something he would never have felt young or free enough to do in his marriage. 

Then again, it’s not like he would have been going out on a Friday night with Micol.

By the time he has his shirt off Elio has poured their drinks and is sipping his own while leaning nonchalantly against the counter, giving an utterly indecent look of appreciation which matches and raises Oliver’s from earlier.

“What are you looking at?” Oliver grins, enjoying feeling so desired. 

“Mm, nothing,” Elio hums nonchalantly, taking another small sip as he shakes his head. Then he gestures toward Oliver with his drink, not looking up; “Keep going,” he prompts.

Oliver just huffs a laugh and shakes his head slightly abashedly as he removes his pants, but he knows it’s clear that he’s been switched on just from Elio’s eyes… He has no idea how he’s supposed to last the night; this side of Elio comes close to killing him every time.

Every time he realises how much his already independent Elio has come into his own he just… 

It’s too much.

Oliver puts on exactly what Elio suggests and then does his best to catch up on the drinks by the time they reach the club, with smashing success.

Elio’s advice about the club was both right and wrong. 

In many ways it is just a club where people come to dance and drink and have a good time, and there are a lot of people dressed as casually as Oliver… But there are also a number of people dressed in the full-body leather Elio mentioned, and women and men alike dressed in next-to-nothing, and drag queens going all out in wigs and heels that have them standing taller even than Oliver, in makeup that makes their faces into beautiful caricatures...

Oliver has nothing bad to say about any of it, he just finds it a little much, a little confronting at first… He feels a little like the odd man out, like everyone can tell that he was a married father of two professor who wouldn’t have dreamed of coming here only a few months ago…

Elio seems to see his surprise and buys them a round of shots and then something to sip before sitting them down in the smokers area and introducing him to a younger friend of his called Alex and his group of friends. 

Said group includes one of the drag queens Oliver was so caught off guard by, and once they all get talking she turns out to be one of the funniest, most genuinely interesting people Oliver has ever met. 

Her best friend is a _nun;_ something Oliver’s parents might have led him to believe was impossible as he was growing up… Something they _did_ lead him to believe was impossible, and something he needs to disentangle from himself.

He wants to be more than accepting, he wants to stop finding this confronting at all.

He wants Elio to be proud of him.

He’s reminded of something Elio said when they first met again in LA as he watches his love watch the group head out to dance.

_‘You know that it’s your culture too, right?’_

And he had felt that it wasn’t – and still, in many ways doesn’t feel that it is… 

But Elio was right, that what happens here does affect him. The fact that even he was shocked… It says something. And Elio sees that in the world, and works to create something better by writing his songs, by suggesting ideas and visuals that make this less shocking to people like him…

Unable to contain his pride, Oliver pulls Elio into his side from where he’s sitting smiling over at his friends and kisses his forehead, holding him close.

“What was that for?” Elio asks, looking up with amusement.

“Just love you a lot,” Oliver says simply, looking into the eyes of the one he never could stop loving, even when he tried.

Not his ‘partner’ but his person, his other, his twin soul… 

“…Sap,” Elio teases with a grin, interrupting his thoughts. “Love you a lot too though,” he says with drunken happiness as he leans in closer, bringing the cigarette one of his friends gave him to his lips and blowing the smoke away from Oliver, knowing he quit long ago.

“I didn’t know you still did that,” Oliver says without judgement, gesturing to the cigarette.

Elio just shrugs, taking another drag. “Only when I’m out, or you know…” 

His suddenly eyes take on a sadder look, the mood dipping slightly. 

“When I’m fucked up about something, you know?”

Oliver just pulls him in tighter and says, “I love you,” again.

Elio smiles, amused again.

“You already said that, but I love you too,” he repeats with a laugh. “But now is not the time for that.”

He kisses Oliver once more, lightly on the lips with a playful grin, before putting out his cigarette and pulling him to join the group on the dancefloor. 

Though truly they’re dancing by themselves on the periphery very quickly.

Oliver is just drunk enough to let go a little and not worry so much about how he looks – especially with the taller queens about making him less self-conscious about his height… but mostly he’s paying attention to Elio.

Because _shit._

He knew he could dance. But he dances _very_ differently at a club in New York than at a ‘club’ in Crema, or in his living room; if he wasn’t directing his moves towards Oliver he’d be worried that he was about to leave him, by the way he’s dancing.

Those hips…

They end up exchanging quick, enthusiastic handjobs in a bathroom stall, which Oliver feels a little too old for, but he’s too desperate to say anything.

Even with that release to cool him off he can only last so long before they need to go home so he can tear off those goddamn jeans standing between him and Elio’s skin.

Elio follows through on that dark look in his eyes from earlier in the night when they get home, demanding that Oliver strips before removing all of his own clothing save for his underwear and his leather jacket and breaking out both the soft crop Oliver prefers and a few of the toys – clearly removed from the safe earlier in the night.

He knew what he was after tonight, after all.

He doesn’t go too hard, knowing exactly where to stop with Oliver, but he doesn’t exactly go easy either…

In the end Elio revels in Oliver’s urgency and he’s more than happy with the way the night has gone, but as they’re falling asleep exhausted in tangled sheets he insists that since they never made it to Rosie’s tonight they have to go tomorrow so Oliver can meet his ‘New York mom’.

Oliver is not inclined to disagree if he gets to see something like tonight again. 

On the eleventh of March Born This Way is released to the world to do its work and affect its change.

Usually on the day of a release Elio would be on the verge of a nervous breakdown until he got the first numbers and reviews to tell him he still had worth in the world, but with Oliver around, and with the truth, and the passion he and Stefani put into so many of the songs… he’s not worried at all this time.

They’ve travel to LA for the release party, staying at Elio’s old house which is eerily empty and quiet compared to his New York apartment. With how warm and full his life is now, Elio doesn’t let it bother him – they’ll only be there for a day or two anyway.

Elio spends the day of the release with Oliver watching reruns on the couch and eating blueberries out of his hands until his tongue and lips are purple, smiling happily up at him every time he thinks about the party coming up in just a few hours.

When the sun starts to dip they sip champagne and dress slowly – and then they undress for a little while, but they’re ready to go by the time their car arrives in any case.

Elio is surprised by Oliver’s excited little smile as they pull up, but he’s not about to say anything to take it away – he’s excited himself, to see how happy they’ll look in the photos when they come out.

He thought he’d be thinking more about how Oliver’s parents will see him standing next to his ‘partner’ – ugh – at the release party for the queer, kinky pop album he’s co-written so that people like their son won’t listen to people like them…

But he doesn’t think about Oliver’s parents.

He doesn’t think about his past in this city.

He doesn’t think about what’s to come.

He’s happy, and he’s on a high, and the spectre of the past has no place here.

 _I wonder how long this will last,_ he thinks with amusement, leaning up to kissing Oliver and banishing all thoughts of what may be to come.

_Come what may._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, happiness :')
> 
> Tbh that kind of feels like a natural end point? But I have a few ideas for little things during other time periods (when Gaga hurts her hip, AHS Hotel, Joanne)... I might make this the last proper storyline chapter, but upload epilogues for those things? Let me know what you're thinking/what you prefer please :')
> 
> Please leave me a comment! They really do make my day and motivate me to keep writing ♥️♥️


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